Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1026010.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage, Rape/Non-Con
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      MS_Paint_Adventures, Homestuck
  Relationship:
      Jade_Harley/Dave_Strider, Dirk_Strider/Equius_Zahhak, Rose_Lalonde/Kanaya
      Maryam, Dave_Strider/Karkat_Vantas, Terezi_Pyrope/Dave_Strider, Terezi
      Pyrope/Karkat_Vantas, Bro/Equius_Zahhak, John_Egbert/Vriska_Serket,
      Terezi_Pyrope/Dave_Strider/Karkat_Vantas, Bro/Dave_Strider, Dave_Strider/
      Dirk_Strider
  Character:
      Dave_Strider, Bro_|_Dirk_Strider, Jade_Harley, Karkat_Vantas, Terezi
      Pyrope, Rose_Lalonde, John_Egbert, Equius_Zahhak, Nepeta_Leijon, Sollux
      Captor, Aradia_Megido, Vriska_Serket, Tavros_Nitram, Gamzee_Makara,
      Caliborn, Kurloz_Makara, Kanaya_Maryam
  Additional Tags:
      Blood_and_Gore, Masturbation, Violence, Sexual_Violence, Sexual_Content,
      Alternate_Universe, Demonstuck, Demonic_Possession, 90s_AU, Nostalgia,
      Haunting, Dark_Comedy, Horror, Comedy, Nostalgiaverse, The_80s_AU,
      Sibling_Incest, Incest, Body_Worship, Molestation, Recreational_Drug_Use
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-10-31 Updated: 2017-08-10 Chapters: 4/? Words: 14760
****** The Gathering ******
by Edgelord_(lostlikeme)
Summary
     Your name is Dave Strider; the year is 1999. Ever since your first
     trip to the Makara Bros. Dark Carnival your oversized Texan home
     hasn't been the same. Your sleep is plagued by night-terrors, and
     after a particularly vivid hallucination you tell Bro that it's time
     to ollie the fuck out.
     Your interest in the occult becomes ever-increasing after an
     acrobatic pirouette into a small Los Angeles apartment, where you
     find that there are already twelve pre-existing, long dead tenants
     living there. After a violent encounter with a less then benevolent
     face-painted demon, you decide that it's time to break out the big
     guns:
     Enter Seer Rose Lalonde and her paranormal investigation team, John
     Eggbert and Jade Harley. Unfortunately exorcisms never adhere to the
     best laid plans, and as a last resort you seek help in the hands of
     grouchy nub-horned demon and his eleven undead friends. Victory is
     imminent...
     That is, until you find out who's really been pulling the strings
     behind the curtain.
***** Chapter 1 *****
Your name is Dave Strider and today is your fifth birthday. It is an especially
important birthday because it signifies that you are old enough to wield your
first katana, a milestone you have been looking forward too with equal amounts
of fervor and trepidation. Bro assures you that everything will be fine, and
though you think it’s a little overkill you allow him to blindfold you for the
ride to see your birthday surprise anyway. Your small, sweaty fingers are still
tightly wrapped around Lil Cal’s arm when the first speedbump sends your body
lurching forward.
“You okay little man?” Bro asks, forearm pressing against your chest
protectively. You nod and adjust the blindfold over your pointed shades.
By the time Bro removes the cloth the smell of popcorn has nearly given away
the surprise. The Houston stadium towers before you, bright lights illuminating
oversized letters that you can only just barely recognize. You tighten your
fist around Bro’s fingers as you lean forward to get a better look at one of
the posters. You understand the words in your mind and of course you know how
to sign it but your tongue still slips up when you try to sound it out.
“Maah-caar-aah,” you say slowly. “Bruuh-oos,” you finish in a quiet whisper.
You silently form the sounds with your lips a second time before realization
fully dawns on you. “Makara Brothers!” you announce in a hushed voice, rocking
back on your heels in excitement. “They’re really real?” you say in disbelief,
staring up at the way the neon signs shine against the dark night sky. “And
they’re really here?” It’s the most you’ve said all day and the conversation
leaves you breathless.
Bro noods before ruffling your hair. You scowl because you’re getting way too
old for gestures of affection like that. “You know it lil’ man, we got the
whole nine yards.” He stuffs his hand into his pocket and pulls out two small
squares of paper. “Front row seats,” he explains. “To the best show in town.”
You try your best to look as overjoyed as you know you should be feeling.
“Don’t worry,” Bro says. “I remember what turning five means,” he says with a
wink. “Your other present is at home, so let’s just have fun for now. Okay
kiddo?”
A smile splits your face before you can even attempt to be cool. You want to
assure him he’s the best brother ever but you can’t find the right words.
Instead you tug him towards the entrance. Your fingers twitch compulsively but
Bro doesn’t know sign language, won’t understand. “Clowns,” you manage at last,
tripping over your own excitement.
It turns out that the circus consists of a lot of waiting, something that
becomes infinitely more easy to stomach with the assistance of caramelized
popcorn and candy apples. Sugary syrup coats your front teeth as you bite into
an apple, and one wiggles with a telling looseness. The lights fizzle out one
by one before blinking several times and shining a single spotlight onto the
stage.
The face-painted Ringleader announces the arrival of his miracle band of
misfits, invites the audience to join him in his ascension into the darkest of
dark carnivals. The show is entirely run by similarly painted performers
proudly dressed in purple, from the animal trainers to acrobats and everything
in between. Ironically, it’s the magic act that pushes your nerves to their
limits, heart thundering desperately against your ribcage. Bro hands you
chapstick when he notices the way you’re gnawing on your bottom lip in
anticipation, but you can’t pull your eyes away even as you spread strawberry-
banana Lip Smackers haphazardly across your mouth.
“I’m looking for a fearless little star monkey who’d like to volunteer to help
us perform our next magical feat,” the Ringleader says. He looks unsurprised as
hundreds of hands shoot into the air. You stretch your arm as far up as you can
manage, wiggling your fingertips. “The catch is that for this trick you must be
willing to allow us to use an important item on your person.” Several hands
fall and your own wavers anxiously.
The Ringleader makes broad hand gestures as he explains. “This item can be
something of monetary value, like a watch. Or it can be an item of emotional
value, like a treasured photograph.” Lil Cal’s head bobs above your own as you
wave him in the air. The Ringleader locks his eyes on yours and motions for you
to stand. “Step right up little brother. Tell us your name.”
Bro encourages you forward with a shooing hand motion and so you swallow up
your nervousness and scuttle down the aisle onto the stage. The Ringleader
hands you a microphone that’s heavy and slick in your fingers. “Dave,” you
mutter in a quiet, cracked voice. Bro shoots you a thumbs up from the audience
and relief washes over you. “Dave Strider,” you repeat louder.
The Ringleader steps back in a sweeping motion that’s almost frightening under
the blinding glow of the fluorescent spotlight. “And who is this?” he asks,
hunching over and gesturing to the wooden dummy dangling from your left hand.
From this close you can see where his shiny dark skin streaks through the green
paint, a greasy red swirl on either cheek almost like on your puppet.
“Lil Cal,” you say proudly, holding up the puppet ineffectively for the
audience to see. “Present from my Bro.” you say, pointing. A spotlight hovers
briefly over Bro and he gives a small wave.
The Ringleader smiles. “And would I be right if I guessed that today is also
your birthday?” When he smiles his teeth appear too big and too pointy for the
size of his mouth, but your brother’s presence just a few meters away assures
your safety.
Your eyes widen in amazement behind your sunglasses. “Yes,” you say, quietly
awed. “How did you know?”
The Ringleader delivers a small smile and a wink. You realize he has eyes the
same color as your own. “A magician must never reveal his secrets,” he says.
“Ready for a birthday surprise?” he asks, reaching towards your most prized
possession. “Don’t worry,” he says sweetly. “I promise I’ll give it back.”
Without further hesitation you hand Lil Cal over, eyes skittering to gauge
Bro’s reaction. The Ringleader holds Lil Cal high in the air and two cloaked
figures appear from behind him, dragging forth a smaller, third person. For a
brief moment you think that you’re going to meet your first little person, but
upon further inspection you realize that it’s merely a boy not much older than
yourself.
They press his palm flat against Lil Cal’s head and begin chanting. The words
are unrecognizable, the sound of their language foreign and sharp. As the
chanting continues a gust of wind tears through the center of the stage,
surging forward and propelling Lil Cal into the air where his wooden body
hovers above the Ringleader's head. The boy begins screaming as the chanting
rises in volume, and when you turn around to reach out for Bro you realize that
everything behind you has disappeared.
Your heart begins to race as your eyes scan the darkness for recognizable
shapes, frantically searching for the rows of comfortable seats you know should
be there. The mood ring on your finger darkens as tears well in your eyes. The
first figure flips back the hood of the third to reveal a boy with frightened
violet eyes and lips shown shut with dark black thread. He stares directly at
you before slowly lifting his arms and connecting his fingers. The boy signs at
a speed so fast your eyes can barely track the movement, your brain struggling
to keep up and comprehend while many of the signs are completely unfamiliar.
Welcome to the Dark Carnival, he says. Prepare to be awakened.
You watch, horrified and mesmerized as the taller clown catches the end of the
thread between his thumb and forefinger before giving it a firm tug. The thread
begins sliding through the holes in his lips, dark indigo staining the fabric
and splashing to the floor. When the last of it is removed the clown throws
back his head and unhinges his jaw as a stream of white noise and whispering
bursts forth.
Belatedly, Dave realizes the noise isn’t a voice at all, but rather the low hum
of hundreds of insects. They gather in hordes as the boy’s body begins to
decompose at an accelerated speed, bile rising in the back of your throat. When
the boy begins screeching in pain you can’t stop yourself from flinching and
looking away. “Don’t be such a fucking pussy,” The Ringleader says, gripping
your skull in his skeletal fingers and forcing you to watch.
A high pitched scream explodes in the air and the room goes dark, Lil Cal
falling to the tiled stage with a soft thud.
The crowd applauds in a deafening uproar, standing in their seats to clap and
shriek in amazement. You struggle to catch your breath, chest heaving with
effort. “Dave!” a familiar voice shouts. Your eyes lock on Bro’s face and you
swallow the lump in your throat and lurch forward.
“Don’t forget this,” a deep voice says. Lil Cal is thrust into your arms while
you breathe quick shallow breaths at the thought of his unhinging jaw. A
chaotic noise bursts into your mind and erupts behind your temple. Let’s go
motherfucker, says the voice. You can see Lil Cal’s shiny plastic eyes shift in
your peripheral vision. Drop me and you will motherfucking regret it.
You wake up in sweat soaked sheets gasping for air. Goosebumps pepper your arms
and every hair stands on end as you struggle to steady your breathing. The
dream fades as consciousness returns, details slipping away until all that’s
left is a blur of indigo and the feeling of cold, unreasonable fear. A bead of
sweat trailing down the skin of your neck is enough to make you flinch
instinctively, and the sudden flash of your own pale arm moving in the darkness
nearly makes you scream. Get a hold of yourself Strider, lest you succumb to
embarrassing levels of being a little bitch.
When you turn on the lamp beside your bed the light bulb flickers briefly
before burning out, and after taking a deep breath you concede to face the
constant unintentional irony that is your life. Humming pop music only just
barely manages to quell your racing mind, drowning in unhelpful predictions
about the horrors that lurk in the hallways of your oversized Texan home.
You’ll admit it to no one, but you make it to the bathroom on sheer
visualization of Britney’s Spears’ new music video. You aren’t exactly into
blondes, and you aren’t exactly into underage schoolgirls, but somehow that
video presses all of the right buttons anyway.
By the time you make it to the closet your cock is at half mast, and you lose
interest in shuffling through towels for light bulbs when a magazine slides off
the top shelf and lands at your feet. The front features a nude black man
sporting an erection the size of a yardstick while the title reads “Black
Inches, #134.” You flip through a few pages with a detached sort of interest
before standing on tiptoe and blindly reaching around in search of another.
Three more magazines fall to the floor, all of which cater exclusively to older
men who like to fuck “tight, blond twinks.”
The notion makes you uncomfortable but not enough to make you stop searching,
and much to your triumph you are rewarded when the fifth and final magazine
that falls onto your face features a woman. Unfortunately, she’s sandwiched
between two men who also appear to be very fond of one another, and when your
eyes scan the title “Bisexual Threesomes,” all the pieces fall perfectly into
place. You forgo tradition in favor of desperation, flicking through the pages
at the counter beside the sink.
You palm your dick through your boxers briefly before slipping your hand
inside, biting your lip as you give it a firm squeeze. There are a few pictures
with men blowing each other that you try to ignore, focusing instead on the
dark haired woman they end up fucking. There’s a little dialogue in the corner
of the page that your brain almost compulsively reads, but you force the train
of thought to derail before you end up creating an entire backstory for the
three of them and featuring them in your next half finished screenplay.
“Shit,” you mumble as your eyelashes flutter and the movement of your
reflection shifting almost startles you.
It’s distracting now that you’ve noticed it, the steady rhythmic motion of your
hand jerking your dick. You shove self-absorption aside and back up to get a
better view, swiping your thumb over the slit as your back hits the wall. The
action forces a low groan from the back of your throat, and with your eyes half
closed it’s too easy to see someone else’s hand palming your dick, a soft,
feminine hand, like the one that belongs to Jade Harley. Your balls tighten at
the thought, chest heaving in anticipation.
Jade is picture perfect, small and smart with big dorky glasses and an
occasionally condescending smile. She whispers nerdy, dirty sciency things into
your ear as she strokes your cock, licking your earlobe and scratching at your
chest.
“The law of conservation,” she gasps. “States that orgasms may be created, not
destroyed--” she trails off when you slip under her shirt, pressing your
fingers against her hardening nipples. She kisses you first and moans into your
mouth when you slip your hand inside her panties.
Fuck, she’s wet. You slide two fingers between the lips of her pussy and rub
until she’s gasping against your neck. Jade grips your shoulder as she rocks
against your hand, dick still bobbing in her loose grip. She squeezes you in
quick spasms when you plunge your fingers inside of her tight hole. She squeals
when you crook them, bucking forward and grinding down as she gasps. She’s
surprisingly sensitive and inordinately quick to come, and as soon as the
aftershocks cease she drops to her knees in front of you.
Your dick feels like stone and your balls are so tight you can’t imagine that
you’ll last more than six minutes. When Jade wraps both hands around your cock
and presses her tongue flat against the head you halve the time and divide the
difference. Seventy-three seconds later and you’ve lost all ability to compute
basic math.
Your eyes flash open as you near orgasm and for a brief moment you see Jade
Harley in the mirror, kneeling at your feet with your dick in her mouth. She
slobs your knob like a veritable pro until a coil unhinges in your belly and
explodes from your dick in thick white spurts. You try warning Jade but all
that escapes your throat is a strangled, desperate noise. She swallows you to
the hilt as your dick twitches a second time, trapped in the hot, wet column of
her throat.
After the third and final load Jade pulls away and wipes her mouth with the
back of her hand, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear like a delicate
goddamn flower, like she didn’t just blow you in your bathroom and swallow.
Slouching against the wall to catch your breath, you watch as mirror Jade turns
away from mirror Dave to face you. Her mouth opens to reveal a lump of vaguely
flesh colored mass. Her red eyes widen and she spits the lump onto the floor
with a wicked grin. Recognition dawns on you in an embarrassingly high pitched
scream.
“What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck!” your throat hurts but you can’t
will your mouth to shut.
The bathroom door flies open and Bro charges in with his tsuguri katana, eyes
wide and frantic as he slips into his best defensive form. When he notices you
his eyebrows shoot up to the top of his forehead. He glances down to the
homoerotic pornography at his feet, before turning his attention back to the
floor where you’re pathetically crouched in the fetal position with your pants
around your ankles.
Bro walks over to the counter where you’ve left “Bisexual Threesomes,” and you
try to uncurl and look a little more casual. Bro snorts as he thumbs through
the pages in the magazine and you focus on regulating your heartbeat. He turns
to you and points to a page featuring a young woman between two identical mocha
skinned twins.
“I’d love to be the cream filling in that oreo,” Bro says with a sly smirk. “If
you know what I mean.”
He stares pointedly at the spot between your legs for several seconds.
Embarrassed, you tuck yourself back into your boxers and mutter an apology. Bro
shakes his head. “Apology not necessary,” he says. “Though I can’t say I’d turn
down an explanation for why you were screaming ‘what the fuck’ at three fifteen
in the morning.” Bro closes the magazine in his hands. “You know, when I had my
sexuality crisis, I had it a whole lot quieter,” he tells you.
You sigh and try to think of a reasonable way to explain what you just
experienced. “Jade Harley bit off my dick,” you say at last.
After the initial shock and panic ebbs away you manage to explain the entire
incident to Bro, sparing him as many of the lurid details as possible. The last
thing you want is your older brother being privy to your sexual fantasies. He’s
sitting on the countertop across from you, swaying his feet lightly and
balancing his katana in the center of his palm. The third time it almost slips
and slices open a major artery, Bro sits it down beside him and opens his mouth
to speak.
“So let me get this straight. You had a bad dream?” he starts.
Your eye twitches. “Night terror,” you correct.
Bro shrugs. “Same difference.” You bite your tongue to keep yourself from
flipping the fuck out. “So you had a bad dream, came in here to jerkoff, and
then had a minor hallucination?”
Lips pressed into a thin line, you shake your head. “First of all, it was a
night terror, and possibly precognitive.” Bro rolls his eyes but it doesn’t
deter you. “Secondly, if I had been hallucinating--which I wasn’t--I think it’s
safe to say that it would break at least a seven-point-nine on the
hallucination scale.” Bro waits for you to finish, unimpressed. “And thirdly, I
didn’t come in here to jerk off, I came in here looking for light bulbs and
your stash of dirty magazines distracted me.”
“Tomatoes, tomatas,” Bro says disinterestedly.
You shoot him the most serious glare you can manage, being sure to maintain eye
contact to assert your position as alpha. “This house is haunted,” you say
slowly for dramatic effect. “And we both know it.”
Bro laughs, slides off the countertop, and tosses you the magazine over his
shoulder as he heads for the door. “Don’t stay up too late.” he murmurs. You
can’t think of anything clever to say until Bro has rounded the corner and
started down the hallway towards his bedroom. It doesn’t matter, you’re too
angry to care about what the conversation lapse says about your intellect.
“We’re moving out of this fucked up Scooby-Doo Halloween Special!” you scream
as you towel up dried jizz off the bathroom floor.
You spend the rest of the night hunched over a Gameboy Color under three layers
of blankets, catching wild pokemon beside the dim glow of the bedroom lamp and
apprehensively glancing in the direction of the closet door. When you stumble
into the kitchen four hours later Bro is already sitting at the counter,
butterfly clips ironically pinning back his bright blond hair as he fiddles
with his tamagotchi pet with one hand and shovels a poptart into his mouth with
the other.
“You look well rested,” Bro quips as you rummage through the freezer in search
of french toast sticks.
You flash him your middle finger and roll your eyes. “Don’t you have a lite
brite calling your name or a bunch of anthropomorphic ponies to watch?”
Dirk’s face remains impassive. “I’m not a just huge dick-sucking faggot factory
twenty-four-seven,” he informs you.
“Could have fooled me,” you mutter, lining up four slices worth of frozen
french toast sticks into your toaster. What? It isn’t as if you splurged and
spent extra on the deluxe model for no reason. It has four slots. You pull up a
stool and Lil Cal almost frightens you into squeezing an entire bottle of maple
syrup onto your breakfast.
“Does he really need to be at the kitchen table?” you complain.
Bro peers at you from over his bright red tamagotchi. Thirty-two is definitely
too old to be playing with virtual pet animals but hey, you just spent four
hours of your life participating in what might as well be a virtual dog
fighting ring. Who are you to judge? “I’m not going to isolate Lil Cal from his
family because you had a nightmare.”
Bottling the rage that’s boiling in your gut, you shake your head at his
audacity and condescension. “You know, sometimes it feels like he’s your
brother, and I’m just a useless puppet,” you say.
When you lean over your plate to take a bite of unevenly heated french toast
substitute the newspaper beneath Lil Cal’s wooden leg catches your eye.
Suddenly your empty threat from this morning is fueled with determination and
full of possibility. “I still want to move,” you announce between bites of
syrup and bread. “To California,” you demand. “Los Angeles,” you specify, eyes
skittering across the article.
Bro shakes his head and sets down Lil Hal on the countertop so that you know he
means business. “Absolutely not,” he says evenly. You can’t see his eyes behind
his shades but his brows are narrowed and his jaw is tense.
You aren’t budging. “You’re not my real Dad,” you tell him. Then, more
steadily, you say, “I’ll move without you.”
Bro calls your bluff with a laugh and wave of his wrist. “Number for the U-haul
is in the phonebook,” he informs you. “Make sure you send me a postcard from
LA.”
As a last resort you heave your chest in the heaviest, noisiest sigh you can
manage and roll your eyes. “We both know California is the homosexual capital
of the entire world,” you say. Bro’s face remains apathetic. “And how long have
you been single now? Two, three...four years?” Bro doesn’t respond. “How is the
gay scene in Houston anyway? Cloudy with a chance of gaybashing?”
At that Bro can’t help but scoff, but you continue your unconvincing tirade
like the salesman who advertises for the used furniture outlet The Dump. “The
state itself is geographically the prostate of the United States of America,”
you try. Bro quirks a brow. “Every gym there is practically a big gay orgy
waiting to happen, the streets are crawling with attractive, nubile young
twinks--”
Bro stops you with a single hand gesture. “Dave, I’ve lived in Los Angeles. In
the seventies. In the eighties. Before I found out I had a little brother on
his way into foster care back in Houston, remember?”
Undefeated, you continue your methods of persuasion. “Bro, that was like…thirty
years ago.” Bro shrugs and you shake your head. “No, what I’m saying is,
imagine how much gayer it’s gotten.” You raise your eyebrows suggestively and
give him a few moments to consider what you’ve said.
“Who am I kidding?” Bro mutters to himself as as he heads for the kitchen sink.
He turns to you and tips his shades in a mockery of seduction. “You had me at
prostate.”
Bro exits the kitchen with a flare and when you slip your plate into the sink a
sudden movement catches your eye. You turn to find the countertop clear sans
the newspaper, and you desperately try to convince yourself that Bro snagged
Lil Cal on the way out.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     This chapter features some pretty explicit underage incest. It's at
     least as fucked up as you are imagining it.
 
 

Your name is Dirk Strider, and today is your twenty-first birthday. (At least,
that’s what you tell the bouncer.) The tree trunk of a man doesn’t even ask for
ID before shuffling you inside. You’re offended; you were kind of looking
forward to the adrenaline rush, the titillating jailbait tango. Stuffing your
perfectly forged photo ID back in your pocket, you barely have time to cringe
at the godawful shitracket blasting from the speakers. Some kind of shitty pop
mashup that used to be Cyndi Lauper.
Three drinks in, you meet Equius for the first time, outcasted at the bar away
from the bump and grind of the dancefloor. Unable to see his face behind the
leather, he does about as much for you as the music. His body is ripped, his
height is towering, but it’s his body language bleeding the perfect kind of
bitch that trips your trigger. He stands straight with squared shoulders all
but looking down his nose in distaste at you. You could fuck a guy like that
all night without seeing his face. You eye his ass as you trail behind him,
trying to remember what he just said.
“Your boyfriend’s a drug dealer?” you ask, and he swivels so fast in your
direction for a moment you think he might actually slug you.
“We aren’t exclusive,” he says, barely concealing his distaste with a whisper.
“And I prefer the term ‘street pharmacist’.”
For a submissive he’s a cocky sonuvabitch, and you really fucking like that.
Breaking in a bitch is kind of your biggest fantasy, and nobody needs to know
you can barely break in a pair of boots. You tried hard not to show up looking
like Rainbow Brite Jr., but even in heels it’s hard to imagine that much power
and muscle under your command and control.
The dude’s boyfriend is more than a little dodgy, that much you know before
meeting him. The journey alone is a rough indicator, the way you have to follow
Equius through empty hallways and slide into an unlabeled back door. Where you
are now, you realize, is much less of a club club and much more of a sex club.
Not exactly an orgy, but close enough. Scattered couples and Gamzee’s creepy
leer as Equius shuffles a small plastic packet into your palm.
“Meet me in the bathroom,” he whispers and walks briskly away.
You don’t check, but you’re certain there’s a small bag of cocaine in your
palm. The size is absurd, like a five pound bag of sugar for an entire
dollhouse family. Gamzee shoves you into the stall after Equius and squeezes in
behind you. There’s so much grime you aren’t sure where to put your hands. The
bathroom reeks like something dead and your boot heel slides through something
wet. You elbow Gamzee when he squeezes your hips and Equius shudders, tilting
his neck. Gamzee unzips part of the leather hood and smears a line across the
artery on Equius’ neck. Your heart is already redoubling, overheated between
the two of them.
Gamzee splits two breaths between his nostrils and licks the last of the powder
right from Equius’ dark skin. When he turns to you looking like the wrong end
of a powdered donut he claps a hand around your shoulders. “Are you sure I
can’t help a brother up into his motherfucking chill?” he licks his lips.
Resolutely, you shake your head. Just thinking about the loss of control makes
your skin crawl. “Hugs not drugs,” you mutter weakly, but the peer pressure is
imminent. Your control is slipping, id trampling the superego in a desperate
grab for instant gratification. This is how you were raised, after all.
“No,” you tell him, and Gamzee laughs.
Two hours and two bumps later you’re sweating like a pig and tripping over your
own tongue in an effort to prove that The Last Unicorn is really just a cover
for the creator’s clinical depression and slow descent into existentialist
madness. You’ve had weirder conversations sober, but it doesn’t detract from
the cognitive dissonance. Somewhere between Twilight Sparkle’s tail and “hung
like a horse” you lose it, suffocating under the weight of your own lost
metaphors. Lost in the hot sauce, Gamzee tells you. In retrospect this is just
the sexy equine backdrop for what you’re about to do. What are you about to do,
exactly?
It doesn’t really hit you until you’re back in the lounge--wherever that is.
The only thing you really focus on is the overused electric disco beat in the
background, a remix of Material Girl that would make Nine Inch Nails cry. The
thought almost makes you remember what it’s like to have feelings. The last
time you cried was before you started primary school, when the police took you
away from Roxy. You take two hits from a joint in the courtyard and try to keep
a straight face when Gamzee throws a rap that even your little brother could
toss back.

                          DIRK --> Enter rap battle.
GAMZEE: BuT I'M AlL ScOpIn aT MiRaClEs tHaT ArE Up iN ThE AiR
GAMZEE: GoT My sEe oN Of mIrAcLeS, tHeY'Re hErE AnD ThEy'rE ThErE
GAMZEE: I Be cHeCkIn tHe mIrAcLeS WhIlE FaLlInG DoWn sTaIrS
GAMZEE: OcEaNs oF FaYgO FuCkIn gLiTtEr lIkE SpAcE
GAMZEE: A FiSt fUlL Of sTaRdUsT'S WhAt's pOoFiN My fAcE
GAMZEE: AnOtHeR MiRaClE RiSeS BeFoRe mY EyEs
GAMZEE: A NeW BrO Is bOrN, aNoThEr fAcE Of lIeS
GAMZEE: AnOtHeR FiVe lItErS Of rAiNbOw pAiNt
GAMZEE: WiTh eAcH ClOwN ThAt’S BoRn, tHeRe sHiNeS A SaInT
DIRK: It’s time for another rap smack, another clap back.
DIRK: Two dead beats, another fast track.
DIRK: Was that rap real? Cause you left slack.
GAMZEE: ThAt's wHaTs uP WiTh tHe tHiNg tHaT I Be iN ThE KnOw
GAMZEE: SoMeTiMeS To wIn tHe rAcE YoU GoTtA PaCe iT SlOw
DIRK: Another shudder for each word you udder.
DIRK: The way you rhyme you might as well stutter.
DIRK: Although you breathe like a buck, you breed like a sow.
DIRK: Head tilted and cowed, you just want to be told how
DIRK: If I told you to jump, you’d ask me, “Right now?”
DIRK: C’mon Ponyboy, where’s the beef?
DIRK: I’m the leader of this crap in chief.
EQUIUS: I prefer the term, “poet.”
DIRK: A poet’s just another word for rapper who doesn’t own it.
EQUIUS: I'd hazard in practice that it's a glass of what's lactic that would
impact this
EQUIUS: Pragmatic to presume? A human metric for grandness stands on fondness
in honest
EQUIUS: One foot in the spectrum, one finger in the rectum of wrongness.
EQUIUS: It’s clear it is the colostrum in longness you’re lacking. That
STRONGNESS
EQUIUS: It must be true that it’s moot crying over what you spilt
EQUIUS: Just another square cracker that goes soft in chocolate milk
EQUIUS: It’s not ilk that I toss but a gentleman must represent
EQUIUS: I have nothing left to prove as you are merely two percent

                             DIRK --> Pop a boner.
Usually your self control is something to write to home about. Tonight your
body beckons you toward bonerville, northbound on the trail of cocaine and
fairydust Equius left behind for you. The way he verbally reamed you is making
you want to physically ream him--stuff your dick inside him until he’s the one
begging for mercy. He'd come untouched if you press the right buttons. Twelve
months shy of legal adulthood, you’re ready for the privilege and control your
childhood never granted you.
Equius nods his assent and your tirade continues. Your mouth is moving faster
than your brain can process. “These assholes wouldn’t know real art if it
climbed out of a Van Gogh painting and took a multicolored shit on their
collective faces.” You aren’t really sure who “these assholes” are exactly, but
they aren’t you or Equius, and that’s what’s important.
When Equius speaks his tongue brushes his lips in a way that forces you to
think about fellatio. “The Last Unicorn is truly a masterful work of art.”
“You’re like a fucking work of art,” you say, before snorting another line of
coke off his glistening muscled chest.
The high feels better when Equius is underneath you. The breadth of his torso
stretches your legs wide. When you drag your tongue across the roof of his
mouth you realize your knees aren’t even brushing the floor. You yank his
nipples and suck on his tongue until he bucks like a bull beneath you.
“Fuck,” you tell him. You know he can feel you through your clothes the way you
can feel him. “You need a saddle, don’t you?”
Dark black hair falls in a braid at his back and the loss of clothes reveals
high cheek bones and skin like columbian coffee beans. You’ve watched a lot of
porn but none of it looked quite as glorious as this: muscles flexing around
shoulder blades and sweat sliding like a stream through a mountainous six pack.
You’re willing to bet Equius can bench press your weight on a bad night. The
size difference does little to intimidate you. Somehow, keeping him in line
comes naturally, the same as it did with real horses before you left the ranch
and went into foster care.
“Please,” Equius says in a whisper when you squeeze him through the leather.
 
Tainted Love blasts from the speaker system and you wonder if this is a sign
from God. At the very least, seeing Equius finger himself feels like a
religious experience. He’s tight but he works himself open like a pro, until
lube sticks to his fingers when he pulls them from his asshole. After this, you
are officially agnostic.
You really want to fuck him now. There’s a condom every fruity flavor of the
rainbow in a bowl by the bar but for the first time you find yourself wondering
if it’s worth it to go bareback. AIDS isn’t really worth it but who the fuck
knows anything about preventive sex care? It’s the early eighties. Everyone
still thinks the gays brought it upon society like a plague of locusts.
Luckily, Equius is more than prepared.
“You got yourself ready,” you praise him. “But you forgot all about me.”
Equius drops gracefully to his knees, fingers shaking with self restraint as he
unzips you and rolls a condom on with his mouth. The pink latex makes your dick
look like you just finished fucking a gummy bear, but even through the condom
you can tell Equius has impeccable technique. To be fair, the closest you’ve
come to sex before now is the time you carved a hole into the couch cushion
when you were eleven and fucked it until you chafed your dick. When you got
caught they sent you to a group home because no one else would take a child
with sexual misbehavior.
“Please,” Equius gasps again, and you feel graciously inclined to reward him.
When you finish tying the condom off you notice his braid is undone, thick
black hair framing his face like a horse’s mane. You retract your hand from his
scalp and the hair falls out all at once, slipping through your fingers like
uncooked spaghetti. Upon second observation, your hand is entrenched in a bale
of straw. Someone laughs behind you, deep and rumbly like a car engine dragging
against asphalt.
It takes you several long, panic ridden seconds to digest the fact that Gamzee
is still there, that he’d never left and somehow you hadn’t noticed. The
thought that he was there all along silently listening, watching, lurking is
unbearable. Equius is MIA, so you try not to wonder how long you were rolling
around alone in the haystack that inexplicably exists in the backroom of a
nightclub. There’s a sweat breaking out on the back of your neck but you tell
yourself everything is going to be fine.
With a sudden jolt, you remember you are on drugs. “This is coke?”
You’ve never done it before but you know enough people to know it shouldn’t
normally make you feel like this. Instead of on top of the world your
equilibrium feels smashed, your center of gravity lopsided. The ceiling is
illuminated like an angel’s halo and your vision fades like an 8-bit tamagotchi
screen running low on batteries. It feels like reality has been wrenched two
inches to the left.
“And a little motherfuckin magic,” Gamzee assures you with a wicked smile. “My
brother.”
The thought seizes you and sends your mind racing. You feel your own stupidity
ricocheting back at you. It could have been laced with anything. You look at
Gamzee for what feels like the first time. The rat’s nest on his head hardly
resembles hair. He offers you a harmless, toothy smile that nearly blinds you
under the beam of the blacklight. Did his eyes always rotate like pinwheels in
the breeze, or is he having a seizure? The pores on his face seem to increase
in size when his chest rises.
Fear paralyzes you, not for the first time. Luckily, you can’t remember the
first time. Maybe this is acid. Maybe this is shrooms. Why not both, or even
something much worse?
“Go to hell,” you tell him.
“Me? If it’s any motherfucker that should be up and fearing for the rapture,
it’s you.” Gamzee appears beside you impossibly fast, even while still moving
in lazy, drawn out movements. Time isn’t adding up. Gamzee clasps your shoulder
like you share any sense of camaraderie. “I guess I’m all motherfuckin weirding
out at some extent to my own motherfuckin self.”
Something in your gut stills with the overwhelming knowledge that at last,
somebody knows. You swallow the long stamped urge to cry for Roxy bubbling in
your throat.
“Hey,” Gamzee says, and even through the drug haze you manage a halfhearted
attempt to shrug him away. You miscalculate and nearly end up face first on the
floor. “You’re a motherfucker who knows all about blood brothers,” he reminds
you. His voice rises and falls, ping ponging between reggae radio host and
psychopathic preacher at the pulpit. “I seen the way you up and get your wicked
on. That motherfuckin blasphemy stuffed in the sock drawer, like that ever hid
a motherfucker’s true nature!”
For a second, you don’t breath. The sock drawer is your most guarded secret.
The photographs don’t exist yet, the ones you know you’re going to stuff in
your dresser after you snap them with the polaroid camera. Dave, back before
you ever gave him his first pair of shades, grinning naked from a bathtub full
of toys with a sudsy fauxhawk. You don’t beat off to that one, but sometimes it
gets you in the mood. The picture behind it features Dave crying from behind
heart-shaped frames. Ignoring your advice, he had a hell of a first day of
Kindergarten. The corner is curling from when you got it wet.
“It’s the wicked soul that you can’t hide, brother,” Gamzee’s hot breath
tickles the hair on the back of your neck. “I can smell the rot in you from
here.” Something is happening with your body. You’re losing control of it.
Gamzee directs your limbs like a marionette. “Come on, give your best
motherfuckin' friend a taste.”
“Bite me,” you want to tell him, but you can’t stop shaking.
He grins with more rows of teeth than a shark, more than can fit into his
mouth. “Oh motherfucker I just might.”
Maybe it’s the drugs, or maybe it’s the adrenaline, but you don’t feel a thing
when Gamzee tears into your wrists like a rabid dog. Detached, you can’t help
but think he looks like he’s been bobbing for skulls in a bucket of blood. You
shake your head at the sight of yourself, slumped over in a pool of your own
blood.
Gamzee’s eyes bulge when he screams, glowing like iridescent beetles. “Is it
okay, dogg? Is it all motherfuckin pretty and kosher?” You think he’s talking
about your blood, and he is. The blood you share with Dave. It’s not clean at
all. You have to get it out immediately. “What you up and done. What you up and
do. To your best friend, your blood brother, a brotherfucker!”
The dream melts around the edges like hot candlewax. When you wake your skin
feels seared along the wrist. The first thing to greet you is the noise: a
dull, repetitive thud coming from above your bed. You can’t open your eyes but
you can feel the low thrum; the hair on you arms prickled like a cat’s fur. The
sheets are damp, spunk drying like Elmer’s glue between your naked thighs.
The whispers tell you not to motherfucking worry. They tell a motherfucker it
will be over soon. You know there isn’t anyone else here but you listen to the
racket anyway. For now, you are frozen, but you count the beats of your heart
calmly, recycling a rap you never finished two weeks ago on the shitter. Even
your big toe can’t be convinced to give a twitch.
You blink when plaster falls into your eyes, the ceiling shuddering with each
sound. Dave’s sclera are a flash of white in the darkness. Practice halts the
barrage of images. You blame the chaos and stress of the Big Move. Before now
your adolescence in Los Angeles remained a flippant memory buried deep in the
recesses of your cis-masculine self-denial, before the pornography business but
after the Daddy issues. You’re not inclined to discuss either, even for plot
relevant purposes.
Eyes narrowed, you scowl. “This better be good.”
It never really is. Dave has been a total pussbaby since you picked him up when
he was five years old. It was cute back then, when his eyes were the size of
saucers and his hand could barely curl around two of your fingers. It wasn’t
cute when he cockblocked you every night for two weeks with nightmares about
clowns. Dave never quite mastered the facade of not giving a fuck, the ballad
of the honey badger.
“There’s something living inside the vents,” he informs you. He twiddles his
fingers and turns his head so you can’t see his eyes, even without the shades.
He’s been saying shit like this past midnight since you picked him up when he
was four or five years old.
He inches closer to the bed until patience fails you and you pull him onto the
bed by his wrist. With his back flush to your chest it almost feels like old
times, ten years ago when he was small enough to fit on your lap without
noticing your erection. Dave is almost an adult now, and you’re still not sure
if you’re disappointed because you’re a pedophile or a parent. For you, it’s
always been a fine line. Dave twists in your lap and pushes his ass
deliberately against your crotch. Cortisol makes it easy for you to pop an
erection.
“Bro, please,” he says. It’s kind of pathetic. He knocks his fist uselessly
against your chest. You used to be the pathetic one, beating off in the
bathroom before bedtime stories because you couldn’t handle being around your
baby brother.
You took all that away from him, and now he comes to you because he needs you
to do this. Because you fucked him so bad and never taught him any other way to
cope. When you were his age, this was your main coping mechanism too. You wish
the guy who taught it to you cared for you the way you care about Dave. Nausea
overwhelms you, and on second thought, you’re glad you hate his guts. Maybe
it’s easier that way.
You almost wait just to hear Dave beg again, but something else is on your
mind. Eyes examining the room, you shove one hand under Dave’s shirt and the
other into his pants. He didn’t used to like it when you touched his chest but
now it makes him squirm in your lap. His dick is average. It could be bigger,
but it’s cute in a boyish way and even better, Dave is insecure about it.
“Looks like little Davey wants to come out and play,” you tease him, eyes
scouring the ceiling. You know there isn’t anyone else in here, but your eyes
never believe your brain.
“Average,” Dave corrects, words faltering when Dirk twists his hand. “Not
small.”
You give him a freebie and almost draw comfort in the familiarity of his
impatience when he urges your hand. You press your thumb pad to the slit of his
cock and his whole body freezes. His toes are curling already.
“Are you stoned?”
When Dave doesn’t answer you don’t bother repeating yourself. To be honest,
you’re not really sure you even said anything the first time. Paranoia creeps
up your spine an inch at a time, the distinct feeling of being watched. Your
hand works Dave’s cock on autopilot as your eyes adjust to the darkness.
There’s a puppet strung from a hanger in the corner of the room that resembles
a noose. Your brother squirms in your lap, eyes screwed shut, cock fit to
burst. This is old hat. He grabs at your neck and you stiffen, eyes locked on
the shadow shifting behind the vent across from the bed.
“Bro,” Dave says breathlessly, but you aren’t listening.
All you can hear is the stick of rusted metal when one of the screws holding
the vent in place begins turning counterclockwise. Dave doesn’t seem to notice,
even when the first screw drops and rolls across the hardwood floor. The noise
rattling inside your brain isn’t real, can’t be real, but you haven’t quite
been real since that night when something splinched your soul and slipped in a
piece of the Truth. You’re never really going to know what happened that night.
At the very least you can take comfort in the scars, railroad tracks across
your wrists to remind you that anything ever happened at all.
You debate a handjob hiatus but Dave is paranoid enough without having to hear
about your brain’s psychological bitch fits, and you really don’t want to
encourage his delusions of horror. Besides, your little brother’s dick is
already twitching for attention. This is easy to distract yourself with.
Sixteen years his senior but just as pathetic. Something, deep, deep, down in
your soul tempts your consciousness with the truth but you ignore it without
even thinking. Dave comes into your palm and when you glance back at the vent
it’s perfectly untouched, all four screws intact.
***** Chapter 3 *****
                       [http://i.imgur.com/U478TqD.jpg]
You’ve been here before, a long time ago. The pink and white wall tile
stretches out above you into a softening yellow ceiling. It’s all coming back
to you. Someone finger painted a message into the fog on the heart-shaped
mirror, but you don’t know how to read yet. There’s the familiar black shadow
in the shape of a face that Bro calls “mold.” This is your house in Texas right
after you first moved in, before Bro redid the bathroom.
“Whaddaya staring at D?”
Bro’s voice echoes behind you, and all at once you notice his presence behind
you in the tub. He’s got waves of heat rolling off clammy skin, but his eyes
are soft. He never looks at you like that anymore. You lean against his chest,
giggling at the sensation of hair tickling your shoulderblades.
“You’re beautiful, little man,” Bro exhales into your hair.
It’s like you’re hearing the words for the first time. Everything felt right
back then but looking at the movie reel now is unlike anything you ever
imagined. Little you is real small, so young your body isn’t much more than a
board with two flat nipples and an outtie. He can lift you as easily as one of
his puppets. You open your mouth to speak but no sound comes out. Bro crushes
your lips together with his thumbs and calls you a fish face.
You spit bathwater from your mouth and he smiles. His knees crowd you from
either side.
“Has anyone ever touched you here?” Bro asks as he reaches between your legs
with a white washcloth.
The tension in the room shifts. You shake your head, lips pursed, but
noiseless.
Bro nods once, slow, before releasing eye contact. “If anyone except me ever
tries to touch you here, you come and tell me.” His laugh starts with a rumble
in his belly that vibrates against your spine. “And I’ll beat ‘em up, hear?”
When you don’t respond he brushes his fingertips across your ribcage until
you’re breathless. You glance around the room to confirm you’re both alone
before shyly signing the affirmative into Bro’s palm. He’s been teaching you
how since your voice went quiet after the carnival. You curl your chubby
fingers inexpertly against your thumb, but the message remains clear.
                       [http://i.imgur.com/i0YNnzN.jpg]
You wake up with a nose bleed and instinctively reach for the bong.
Real horror stories start like this: you’re stoned, it’s five am in the
godawful morning, and McDonald's is closed. The nearest one is driving
distance, so even if it were open there’s no feasible way for you get there
short of stealing Bro’s car. Even the shoestring fries aren’t worth the pain
and humiliation of Bro kicking your ass. Technically, it’s Bro’s fault you’re
awake from his noisy sleepwalking bullshit--rifling through pills in the
bathroom and knocking into the stove. Until he learns to turn it on, it’s none
of your fucking business.
The wake and bake is helping, but you’re still too alert. You take another hit
from the massive seventeen inch ceramic bong and place it back on the desk. The
color and shape remind you of a coiled dragon dick. Hauling yourself from the
mattress into your chair only falls short of a yoga move by two steps. You
shovel Fruit Gushers into your mouth as you begin the arduous task of booting
up your computer. Windows ‘98 flashes in front of you in all of it’s 16-bit
color glory. Four minutes later and you’ve just hit the login screen.
When a distant thud alerts you that Bro is as restless as you are, you sort of
miss the spacious solitude and sanctity of your old Texas home. Your new place
in Los Angeles features wall to wall carpeting and “a thousand hours of free
Internet,” as if Bro’s pornography empire can’t even support a basic
subscription to America Online. When John sends you an IM, you forsake any
further attempts to sleep in lieu of casual conversation. You haven’t heard
from him since before The Big Move, which you’re hoping is less significant
than it feels.

           – - ectoBiologist  began messaging  turntechGodhead - –
EB: hey dave!
EB: you’re up early.
TG: or maybe im just up really late
EB: yeah, the rest of us hard working teenagers attend this thing called
“school.”
TG: but john havent you heard
TG: im too cool for school
EB: that’s so lame, dave.
EB: i can’t believe you really said it.
TG: just tell your sister to IM me already
TG: i said i was sorry
EB: did you dave?
EB: i don’t even want to know.
EB: i don’t own her.
EB: she’s my sister, not a dog.
EB: if she wants to date you…
EB: that’s her business!
EB: i’d appreciate you sparing me the details.
TG: not a chance
TG: lucky for you theres no details to spare
TG: unless you wanna hear about my dream
EB: no thanks.
TG: okay so what had happened was
EB: here we go.
TG: im in the bathroom right
EB: why do these stories always take place in the bathroom?
TG: look john i dont make the rules
TG: i just ride the wave
TG: floating wherever life takes me
EB: you’ve been living by the beach for less than a month.
EB: you know i’m only an eight hour drive away now, right?
TG: look im emailing jade
EB: okay.
TG: what should i say?
EB: how should i know!
EB: i’m not going to walk you through shmoozing my sister.
TG: you dont even know what ive been through
TG: you think you can just show up and tell me how to live my life
EG: dave
EG: you’re quoting the lion king right now.
TG: be that as it may
TG: the other night i had a nightmare about being possessed by a clown
EB: again?
EB: have you tried talking to anyone about this?
EB: you know, besides me.
TG: yeah the other day i told my imaginary friend
TG: he was like dave you should really go to therapy about this
TG: im not even real i dont exist this cant be a healthy coping mechanism
EB: thanks for that
TG: but after that part
TG: jade may have given me the fellatio in the old restroomio
EB: ok i’m done with this
TG: but then she hannibal lectered my dick
TG: john i saw the whole thing dude it was so fucked up
EB: dude.
EB: you realize there are normal websites out there, right?
TG: youre supposed to be my friend
TG: why dont you come do your job and investigate
EB: we only investigate real, actual paranormal phenomena!
TG: im not just fuckin around i was damn near about to crap my pants
TG: good thing i was already on the toilet
TG: am i right??

                      -- ectoBiologist has signed off --
You lean back in your swivel chair to stare at the ceiling. There’s black mold
accumulating in the shape of a face. Everything about this house feels wrong,
from the way the floorboards creak to way the pipes rattle in the middle of the
night. Your old home rattled too--but in all the right ways you were used to.
Somehow, this is worse. Connected to the entire world behind the glow of a
computer screen feels so shamefully lonely.
The doorbell promptly scares the everloving shit out of you. It’s something
like a cross between a car alarm and someone having their nipples torn off. You
slip into a robe and trip down the creaky stairs two at a time, just barely
missing a faceplant when you reach the bottom.
Does the mail usually come this early? The wee hours of the morning are more
your brother’s thing. Your fingers hesitate around the doorknob before you
unlock the deadbolt and chain link. There's no shiny morning sunlight to greet
you this early, just a noxious fog that's probably one part water two parts
pollution. The mail carrier looks displeased to see you at best. You scan the
parcels before he can offer them so you don’t end up staring at his lazy eye.
“Karkat Vantas doesn’t live here,” you tell the stupefied postman. The name
looks familiar but you’ve never felt the sounds with your tongue.
“I’ve been delivering these here for years,” he says, stuffing a stack of
envelops fretfully into your hands before shuffling impatiently toward the next
house, left eye trailing behind him.
As far as you know, the third floor has been evacuated since a fire nearly
burned the roof off, and your second story abode remains untouched. The first
floor is a cross between a basement and garage—a real designer breed. Bro keeps
saying he'll fix it up when you're old enough, so the two of you can pretend
you're living on your own and not sapping all his resources like some kind of
financial leech. You'll believe it when you see it.
Upon further examination it isn’t just a pile of mismarked junk mail. There are
three magazines, the first two which are backdated issues of TV Guide. The next
one is Entertainment Weekly, and behind it are two handwritten letters
addressed from the Los Angeles Correctional Facility to someone else who
doesn’t live here. You trash the letters on your way to the fridge and toss the
magazines on the couch. Maybe you'll read “10 Ways to Surprise Your Man in
Bed,” while you're taking a shit. Somehow, you doubt it.
Everything once edible is either currently rotting or coagulated. There’s a
perfectly unpeeled apple growing mold out of the stem, which up until now, you
had no idea was possible. But isn’t that how it always is? Some things rot from
the inside out, because the real evil is at the core. Appetite thoroughly
dissuaded, you drag yourself up the stairs and down the darkened hallway. The
space beneath your door is illuminated blue from the screen of your computer.
You slide back into your desk chair and scan your FRIENDS LIST. Every username
is greyed out. Everyone is either idle, offline, or pretending to be. When
everyone is asleep, the early morning silence is creepier than the late night
darkness. Do you even exist if everyone else is asleep? It’s hard to say. If a
unicorn shits and no one is there to steal it, does it ever touch the ground?
You fail three attempts before successfully logging into your Geocities
account. Your website looks worse than a trashcan dragged through the dump, but
you're no chump--you've got dedication.
The most recent comic strip you’ve written appears unfamiliar, but you can’t
pinpoint why. The illustration is in your style and the jokes are too lame to
be anyone else’s, but you don’t remember writing it. You cough around the blunt
in your mouth and close out of the page. You’re probably just wigging out from
the weed. It’s a gateway drug, kids. A gateway to trashing your short term
memory. (Stay in school.)
You wipe your palms against your thighs and take a deep breath before
navigating toward your favorite site. The first two images stall halfway
through the loading process, forcing you to use your imagination to replace the
broken pixels. How is it your brother can run an entire pornography empire but
you can’t convince the router to load Playboy’s website. Making up the details
would be fine, except your brain keeps going to really fucked up places. Like
what if the rest of her jaw is missing, or, maybe her eyes aren’t loading
because she doesn’t have any.
Time to break out the big guns. Things are about to get textual and subsexual
up in here. The AOL chatrooms are a cesspool for child predators and all manner
of bottom feeders, and you're one of them. You go by the username
turntechGodhead, because fuckboi69 was already taken. This is where you cum to
roleplay some of the most twisted shit the shadowy parts of your brain matter
can spawn.
The wind howls outside and AOL chat alerts you that someone is initiating
contact. You lean back and grab a blanket, goosebumps prickling your flesh, and
wonder beyond impossible doubt how your bedroom can possibly feel like the back
of a chest freezer when you know it can’t be below sixty degrees outside.
Scowling at the inhumanity at it all, you almost forget to respond to the new
inquiry. You’ve received two additional messages since the first, each as
nonsensical as the last.

          - – gallowsCalibrator began messaging turntechGodhead - –
GC: H3LLO
GC: 1 4M 1NT3R3ST3D
GC: WOW, YOU SM3LL D3L1C1OUS!
TG: asl
GC: 6/F/L4, YOU?
TG: wow nice attempt at trolling me for a six year old you sure are apt at
leetspeak
GC: WH4T M4K3S YOU S4Y TH4T?
TG: the purposely shitty way you replace certain letters with numbers gives it
away
TG:its a little overkill
GC: YOU D1DN’T 4NSW3R MY QU3ST1ON!
TG: 149/m/your moms house
GC: WH4TS YOUR N4M3?
TG: shaggy 2 dope
GC: TH4T SM3LLS FUNNY
GC: 1T R33KS OF UNTRUTH!
GC: 1N F4CT, 1SN’T TH4T TH3 N4M3 OF 4 F4MOUS JUGG4LO PROPH3T?
GC: OH NO, DON’T T3LL M3 H3 GOT TO YOU 4LR34DY!
GC: 4R3 YOU DOWN W1TH TH3 CLOWN?
TG: ok fine its ben stiller
GC: 1 4M NOT TROLL1NG YOU 1 4M JUST TRY1NG TO G3T TO KN0W 4 L1TTL3 4BOUT YOU
4ND YOUR BRO.
GC: 1T H4S B33N 4 LONG T1M3 S1NC3 1 H4V3 SPOK3N W1TH SOM3ON3 NOT D34D!
TG: you are starting to sound more and more like a deranged stalker
GC: 1LL H4V3 YOU KNOW 1 W4S STUDY1NG TO B3 4 L4WY3R B3FOR3 1 D13D!
TG: okay so now on top of being six you expect me to believe youre dead
TG: and you call me the liar
GC: OK, L1ST3N B3N
GC: WH3R3S TH3 B33F?
GC: 1V’3 B33N D34D F0R a LONG T1M3, AND 1’V3 FORG0TT3N A LOT.
TG: am i supposed to feel sympathetic
GC: G4G M3 W1TH 4 SPOON!
GC: WH4T D1D YOU 3XP3CT?
TG: so you died in the eighties
TG: that is a tragic backstory
TG: forced to perpetually live in a world of high hairdos and madonna
GC: IS THI1S CYB3RS3X?
TG: so ghosts can have sex
GC: OBV1OUSLY NOT 0R 1’D B3 H4V1NG ACTU4L S3X R1GHT NOW 1NST34D OF T4ALK1NG TO
YOU!
TG: rude
GC: W3 D1DNT H4VE TH1S 1N TH3 31GHT13S, D4V3.
GC: 1 H4V3 TO UT1L1Z3 M0D3RN T3CHNOLOGY
GC: WHY DON’T YOU T34CH M3 HOW TO CYB3R PROP3RLY TH3N M1ST3R ST1LL3R.
GC: 1F TH4T 1S YOUR R34L N4M3.
TG: fine
TG: if only because none of the other fishies are biting at this hour
GC: OF COURS3.
TG: ok
TG: so
TG: what are you wearing
GC: 4 S3XY DR3SS W1TH S1X BULL3T WOUNDS 1N TH3 COLL4R 4ND TH3 KN1F3 1 TR13D TO
D3F3ND MYS3LF W1TH.
TG: hot
TG: im wearing a tight sleeveless shirt that shows off my muscles
TG: im like
TG: at least six and a half feet tall
GC: 1’M L1CK1NG MY L1PS
GC: C4US3 1’M SO HUNGRY FOR TH4T D1CK.
GC: >;]
GC: 1 W4NT TO SLOB YOUR KNOB, TONGU3 CO1L3D 4ROUND YOUR M34T L1K3 4 B4LL
PYTHON.
TG: i yank up your shirt and kiss those tits
GC: WHY DON’T YOU PUT YOUR MOUTH TO GOOD US3.
TG: i want you to come on my face
TG: before i slide my dick into your pussy strider style
GC: 1 L1K3 1T H4RD, 4R3 YOU SUR3 YOU C4N K33P UP?
TG: i can spin you round like a windmill
TG: but faster
TG: the sherlock holmes of sixty nining
TG: drilling you nonstop
GC: PL34S3, G1V3 M3 MOR3.
GC: I’m gonna ride you like a bitch in heat. When I peel back the mask,
revealing my truly clownish nature, you’ll never see it coming. Don’t you like
how my face is covered in thick white paint, features smoothed over like
frosting on a cake. I honk my nose twice as melting makeup drips onto your
chest and spills onto the sheets. When you tense I rub my greasy cheek against
your chest, listening to the disjointed thundering of your delicate heart. It
smells like cherry faygo when I impale myself on your pole.
TG: what
TG: the
TG: fuck
GC: H4H4H4H4H4H4HA.
GC: YOU KNOW WH4T TH3Y S4Y 4BOUT ST1CK1NG YOUR D1CK 1N CR4ZY.
GC: 1’M S3ND1NG YOU 4N 3M41L.
TG: no
GC: 1 S3NT 1T. GO R34D 1T.
TG: no

                      - - turntechGodhead is now idle - -
The excitement in your dick inflates slowly, like air escaping a leak in a
poorly tied balloon. You drum your fingers on your desk and try to ignore the
notification that You’ve Got Mail! Maybe if you ignore it, it doesn’t exist.
You gravitate the cursor toward the correspondence anyway. How bad could it be?
                       [http://i.imgur.com/hkrbzGo.jpg]
The problem with closets is there’s just enough space to fit a very patient,
very sneaky intruder. If you don’t go through with this now you’ll never be
able to catch any sleep. Every step closer fills your stomach with dread; the
computer makes a noise like a broken fax machine behind you.
You curl your fingers around the doorknob and tighten your grip. How could such
a stupid chain letter get to you? When you try to turn your hand it doesn’t
budge, like someone is already holding onto the other end. Your heartbeat
stills and then skips a beat while your brain stutters behind. You draw your
hand back and watch, frozen in place as the knob unsticks with a pop and the
door creaks open.
An avalanche of puppets pour out, none of which resemble Lil Cal. You reach for
your katana but it isn’t at your side; you haven’t unpacked it yet. As you
crawl through the mountain of plush ass the closet slams shut behind you. You
cease movement and breathing simultaneously, trying to make out words from the
low whisper rolling across your room:
Reclaim the sacrifice.
The window falls shut with a gust of wind and you ricochet across the carpet,
sweaty palm pressed to the light switch. Predictably, AOL has timed out. What
the fuck. If you tell Bro you’re hearing voices, he’s going to think you’re
crazy. He probably already does. The worst part is you didn’t hear it so much
as you felt it, like a chill in the marrow of your bones.

            – - turntechGodhead began messaging timeusTestified – -
TG: theres something wrong with this house dude
TT: Just like there was something wrong with the last house?
TG: exactly like that
TG: but worse
TG: this isn't just weird shit with lil cal anymore
TG: i got a threatening email earlier today
TT: Wait a minute.
TT: Thee world famous Dave Strider got an email from someone?
TG: or something
TT: Very funny.
TT: Was it about your blog, or your shitty webcomic this time?
TT: What do you want to do Dave?
TT: Move again?
TT: Have you ever stopped to consider the fact that it might be you?
TG: im emailing jade
TT: Am I supposed to know who that is?
TG: nah
TT: So that’s it?
TG: yep
TT: Fine.
TG: cool
TG: okay so
TG: i met this girl online
TT: The internet does not count as “part of this house,” you know.
TG: thats not what you said when you found my geocities
TT: You were posting naked pictures.
TG: you couldnt even see my face
TT: You’re sixteen.
TG: im seventeen
TG: my body my rules
TT: It’s still against the law.
TG: so what do you want me to do
TG: travel back in time and untake the nudes
TT: Yes Dave, you got me.
TG: i heard a voice in my room
TT: I thought you received an email.
TG: first i received a weird email
TG: then i heard the voice
TG: from inside my closet
TT: We have neighbors now, Dave.
TT: I told you living in the city wasn’t going to be all roses and coming of
age stories.
TG: it wasnt the neighbors
TT: Did you find anything in your closet?
TG: no
TG: what are you even doing up
TT: Maybe I’m not.
TG: really not funny
TT: Hilarious.

                    - - timaeusTestified is now offline - -
You draft the email to Jade, fingers trembling with rage, foot shaking
incessantly beneath your desk.
***** Chapter 4 *****
                       [http://i.imgur.com/JjttKFn.jpg]
Your name is Dirk Strider, and today is your eighteenth birthday. At least,
that’s what you’re telling the producer. It is an especially important birthday
because it means you are finally old enough to consent to engaging in lewd
sexual conduct, and even better, be filmed and paid for doing it. The contract
is unsurprisingly imbalanced in the studio’s favor, and you know that means
anyone from Los Angeles to New York is liable to see your ass get reamed via
VHS. For all you care, you could be signing away your soul. It’s not like you
have anything to lose.
You glance up as two men walk across the set in conversation, one naked. It’s
the one in the leather chest bondage and assless chaps that stops you in your
tracks. He’s like a sexy black Billy Idol on steroids. Wound tight, your eyes
swivel from where they’ve settled on his chest and back to his face. His lips
form words your ears don’t hear. You stick your hand out on autopilot, staring
past his focused gaze at the plaster wall behind him. His cheekbones are
sculpted beneath skin smooth as dark chocolate and slicked with sweat.
“Equius Zahak,” he says evenly, like you don’t already know.
Three weeks ago flashes behind your eye like a broken mirror: fragments of a
rap battle he schooled you in, the way his mouth felt around your cock. The
last time you met Equius you were 21; hopefully he doesn’t give away your lie.
You refocus and get a good look at his face for what feels like the first time.
His chin tilts downward almost immediately, dark blue eyes cast on tile. Breath
caught in your throat, you almost choke through your make pretend introduction.
Boy got you sprung.
“Dick Strider,” you say, squeezing his palm. Equius coughs and it becomes clear
that you’ve already made an ass of yourself. “Dirk Strider!” You can feel the
blood coursing through your wrist as you pull away.
The naked dude standing beside Equius makes an awkward noise. “Um,” he says,
looking between the two of you.
The director breaks the two of you apart with a single glance, reminding you to
save it for the screen. Someone fits you into an embarrassing costume,
something young and stupid you expected but couldn’t quite prepare for. It ends
up on the floor almost immediately. Kissing is in the contract, someone reminds
you with no discernable sympathy.
The scene itself is a catastrophe. Three takes in and you’re still soft as a
marshmallow. To be fair, you aren’t used to playing bottom. Despite all your
Rainbow Twink and My Little Fuckboy, you’ve always been the most turned on when
you were doing the fucking. The producer tells you that it just means you
haven’t been fucked right. You’ve done a fair share of exploring on your own,
but who are you to tell a porn grandaddy master like him? He says you aren’t
tall enough to top, but you’ll never stop holding out for a last minute growth
spurt.
“Cut!”
A couple more mistakes like this and they’re going to cut you out entirely,
pubescent looks and exotic orange eyes be damned. Equius eases back from where
he was hovering over you, pressing you into a cheap mattress with tacky orange
and white polka dot sheets. You inhale as desperately and discreetly as
possible. Without your shades everything in the room appears unnaturally
bright. Your eyes are dry and there’s a headache blossoming between your
temples.
“Fuck,” you sigh, sitting up and resting your arms on your knees.
At least you aren’t entirely naked. The g-string you’re wearing is snug enough
anyone in a fifty foot radius can probably see the vein in your flaccid dick. A
heavy hand hovers above your shoulder.
“High stress situations often cause-”
You narrow your eyes and he quiets. “I know.”
This isn’t your first time at the rodeo, just your first time getting paid for
it. Seconds play with the silence between you; people crossing the set like
background noise, unnoticed and inconsequential. He drops to his knees in front
of you, but he’s still only a little below your eye level. You bounce nervously
on the spring mattress. Equius inches forward, staring up at you. Your
fingertips twitch at the look, you want to see him pushed so much further than
this.
Everything is peaches and cream until he stretches across you, climbing back
onto the bed to tower over your slighter frame. You’re not stupid. You know you
look like every fuckboy power fantasy: a natural blond barely brushing the age
of consent with baby hair pubes. During the intro they made you tell the
cameraman your “birthday” to further fetishize the angle that the day before
today, your boypussy was illegal to stick it in.
Equius kisses you sloppy and hard, lips swallowing your own. His strong tongue
dominates all the space in your mouth, wringing the first real rise from you
when your hips twitch forward. You’re playing up the virginal adolescent thing,
because that’s what sells. Whether or not you’re an actual virgin? That’s
nobody’s business but yours. His roaming hands halt above your navel.
“Have you ever--?”
You roll your eyes. “It’s not like that,” you tell him.
It’s not like you can’t take dick, is what you mean. His breath at your neck
tickles you tense. The pressure in the room couldn't be cracked with a pickaxe;
you can already feel your fingers cramping up. Equius keeps his head low,
breathing heavily and nosing along your stomach.
“What, precisely, is it like?” Equius asks, voice barely above a whisper.
Are the mics even picking up on that? Are they supposed to? Don’t people hate
it when tops talk too much? You turn your head away and bury a fist in his dark
hair.
“Let me up,” you demand, fingers wrapped tight around one of the thick wrists
caging you in.
“You want to...” he shudders, eyes fluttering shut as he rests his clothed,
weighty erection against your thigh. “Ride me?”
“Slut wants to ride him,” someone behind you announces loudly.
It makes you cringe but it’s easy enough to ignore. Equius slides one arm under
your shoulders and tightens his grip, rolling over and effortlessly pulling you
on top of him. Your heart knocks into your chest, upside down, when he gropes
you. He slips his hand through one of the legholes and squeezes your ass, meaty
fingers crawling closer to your crack.
“Shit,” you say, which the cameraman loves.
This actually feels really fucking good.
Equius lubes you up and spreads you apart like a virgin being touched for the
very first time. The attention is nice, but mostly it’s just a constant
reminder of what’s to come. He squeezes a second finger alongside the first and
licks his way back into your mouth. He wiggles his fingers in your ass, heavy
forearm warm against your back, pinning you to his chest as he stretches you
out for his cock.
“Dirk,” Equius says as he fingers you from behind. “Ride me.”
The barely restrained control is kind of doing it for you. Maybe you could be a
Vers. He cranes his neck to leave a shameless “please” in your ear, vibrating
like a ripped car engine underneath you. Your muscles spasm as he lines himself
up between your legs. You reach behind and take his cock in your hand and begin
easing yourself down. The blunt tip breaches you with agonizing slowness,
reshaping your insides to the dick opening you up.
Just when you think you can’t take anymore, he sinks in deeper, nuzzling your
balls with his pubes and bruising your hand in his grip. You try to pull
yourself up and back down but it's nothing like what you can do alone in your
bedroom, with nothing but silicone and an endless supply of porn. You're
pathetically graceless. When you’re finally settled on his rod he groans deep
and bucks inside you.
“Giddyup,” you say.
He snaps his hips like a mechanical bull, grunting as he plows you from below.
The bed creaks, and the cameraman ducks down to get a better view of the
penetration. Equius flips your positions when you aren't expecting it, pinning
you with his frame and leaning down to lick along the length of your neck. Your
nerves light up like electrical circuitry when he pulls your ankles over his
shoulders and folds you in half in like a cheap lawn chair. You wheeze at the
feeling of Equius finally bottoming out.
“Relax,” he says, keeping your asshole spread as he thrusts inside you.
There's perspiration beading on his forehead and collecting at the tip of his
chin. It breaks and falls against your tongue when you blink, bleary eyed and
breathless. The overhead light on the ceiling is really starting to give you a
headache. Equius boxes you in with his bulging biceps, shielding your vision
from the light and your face from the over eager cameraman.
“Milk me,” Equius gasps against your lips. “Milk me dry.”
His jaw unhinges and thick, viscous liquid unloads like a waterfall. You don't
know if milk is better or worse than what you expected. It's definitely whole
fat, not skim or any of that watered down horseshit. It splashes against your
face, eyelashes dewy with creamy raindrops, filling your nostrils and making it
difficult to breathe. You never agreed to doing a facial.
You snap your mouth shut too slow, esophagus bruising under the pressure of the
stream of liquid. Why are you hard? Your lungs inflate like well stretched
balloons and your belly becomes distended and fat. Equius falls away while
you’re drowning, leaving you suspended in an ocean of white wrapped inside a
black hole.
                       [http://i.imgur.com/s6px4OJ.jpg]
Someone is trying to break into your apartment. You hear the scream across the
hallway, but your eyes won’t open and you can’t move. The deadbolt on the front
door unlocks with a resounding click you could recognize in your sleep. The
phone in the kitchen must be dangling by the cord, the piercing dial tone is
reaching you from down the hallway in your bed. Then you hear the click and the
familiar recording you took with Dave two weeks ago starts up.
“Hey, sup? Hello? Can you hear me? Hello? Nah, just fucking with you, chump.
You’ve reached Bro-Stri and D-Bag. We’re probably screening your call. Leave a
message.”
There’s a long pause where you almost think the person on the other end of the
line is going to hang up. In a perfect world, maybe. Your heartbeat is urgent
and fast when the tape begins to roll.
“Dave?” says a high, female voice. “I should have known you were going to do
this.”
This is your unofficial introduction to Jade Harley, your little brother’s
future matrimonial dicksleeve. Halfway through the message you regain control
of your eyelids, but by the time you seize out of bed everything has gone
quiet. You can’t be sure if that part was in real life, or in the dream.
Sleeping has been like this on and off for as far back as you can remember (so
about ten or eleven years old, maybe. Everything before fourth grade is a
blur.)
The voice outside your bedroom continues. “So all I’m saying is, if you’re
going to send me really alarming emails after midnight, at least make sure
you’re sober when you do it, because…”
Sensation returns to your body a toe at a time, until you can snap your eyes
open and reach for a weapon. Your room is still cloaked in darkness, hidden
between two buildings and blackout blinds. You scan the room, clear it, and
leap to the lightswitch before grabbing your sunglasses from the bedside table.
“This kind of stuff isn't a joke,” she says. “Paranormal investigation is my
job.”
Would she just get off her high horse already? Paranormal investigation is less
of a real job than anything you’ve heard to date, somewhere below McDonald’s
and working as one of Santa’s elves. You silently twist the doorknob and peak
through the sliver of space, blindingly bright compared to the dim glow from
your room.
Fuck, your brain must have fried eggs in there. The racket wasn’t the answering
machine at all. There’s a stranger standing in the cross-section between your
living room and kitchen, having a heated conversation with your brother. Shit.
There’s a pile of katanas on the kitchen table. After two weeks of saying you’d
do it, Dave finally took the hint and did it himself. Has that much time passed
already?
“What about this situation have I not taken seriously?” Dave says, in an
impressingly deadpan tone you taught him when he was still just a little
appleseed.
Beside him is a girl an inch or so taller, rail thin, standing with her hand on
her hip in front of the toaster oven. She’s pointier than she is pretty, with
big, round prescription glasses that keep sliding down the bridge of her
pinched nose. She tucks a strand of jet black hair behind her ear and gives
your brother a look you can decipher from here.
“Do I have to say it out loud?”
“Alright,” Dave concedes. “Maybe the stuff about the clowns is a little far
fetched, but that doesn't mean it's not true.”
“So basically…” Her voice reminds you of biting into a piece of unripe
honeydew. “You called me all the way out here with no evidence?”
Dave leans his elbow against the counter and bends one knee. “It depends on
what you mean by evidence,” he says salaciously.
You choose this exact moment to make your entrance, face full of fuck, feet
full of warts. The girl in the long blue skirt turns to watch you cross the
kitchen in nothing but your underwear. You consider grunting salutations but
can’t quite manage to muster up the effort when the time comes. When enough
time passes that Dave can’t bear the awkwardness, he coughs out an
introduction.
“This is Jade,” he says robotically. “Jade Harley.” He turns to you, half
automatic, half looking for guidance. “And this is my brother.” He swallows
hard. Your name doesn’t belong in his mouth, and he knows it. “Dirk.”
He fixes his bangs with a shake of his head, adjusts his shades, and shrugs,
forcibly casual. Is he showing off for you, or her? And more to the point, why
would it even matter?
“Bro,” Dave says, but it isn’t quite a question, so you don’t bother answering.
The conversation stalls while you open the cabinet and rummage around for the
Fruit Loops. Jade attempts a feeble wave when you open the fridge and reach for
the plastic jug with a cow on it. Straight from the udder of life itself. You
pour the milk into the bowl first, just to make a show of yourself.
“Is he okay?” Jade asks.
Your eyes might not work right but you can hear an ant stub its toe from two
blocks down. Whatever you dreamed about last night left you with a craving for
creamy white sustenance, like an orphaned baby calf. When you tilt the spout
over the bowl nothing happens, but you can feel the weight of it unsticking
inside the container. You knock the back and a chunk of coagulated milk plops
into your bowl of cereal like the ending of a bad bukakke scene.
“This has never happened before,” you joke. “Honest.”
Jade chuckles, despite herself. “I told you the fridge was broken,” Dave
complains.
“No, you told me it was going to break. Last week. And now it’s broken. So
either you sabotaged it to make your hypothesis true by breaking it yourself,
or you knew it was on it’s way out to begin with. Anyone with eyes can tell
it’s been here since this apartment was erected.”
“Erected,” Dave repeats, giggling like a schoolgirl. “You got me,” he says,
pretending to be shot. It’s way too early in the day for this shit. “This is
all part of my elaborate scheme to get a fancier icebox.”
You shove the jug of soured milk back into the fridge and scan the empty
shelves for anything that isn’t a condiment. Neither of you actually bought
groceries, because you were saving the space for the swords your lackadaisical
brother finally unpacked.
“Stop calling it an icebox,” you grumble. “And go buy milk.”
You fish a greasy credit card out from your tighty-whiteys and toss is to Dave.
He catches it between two fingers and scrunches up his nose. Jade glances
between the two of you, struggling to comprehend what just took place.
“So this is Harley?” You acknowledge at last, stuffing a handful of cereal in
your mouth. “The chick from your wet dream?” Jade’s eyebrows rise and her face
hardens. “Are you two like, together now?” You dust off your hands so you can
make use of actual air quotes. “An item.”
“It wasn’t a wet dream,” Dave insists, but the damage is done. Jade is going to
grill him about the details the entire way to the store. “Maybe it was a little
damp,” he admits sarcastically.
You shrug. “You've always been sleep cocking ever since I picked you up.”
“Um…” Jade takes a deep breath. “What was that?”
“Sleepwalking, I said.” You scratch your ass. “Ever since he was a kid. Lots of
walking, not much talking.”
“I was mute,” Dave corrects spitefully. “Because you took me to that
horrorterror circus and--”
“Yeah, you always were dramatic, even when you were little.”
Dave signs “fuck you” and Jade laughs like she's following along. You leave the
two of them standing in the kitchen and finish off the box of dry Fruit Loops
alone in your room surrounded by puppets. Six hours later, and Dave still
hasn’t returned with the milk. You’re starting to wonder if he ever will, or if
he’ll never come back just like your dad when he walked out on your mom all
those years ago.
Kidding. You don’t have that kind of a tragic backstory, and if you did, you
wouldn’t let it get to you. (Even more than that, you wouldn’t conveniently
reveal it in the narrative for the sake of anyone but yourself.) You settle on
taking a shower but now you can’t stop thinking about your nonexistent origin,
standing under the water trying to focus on the grainy memories left in your
head.
You open your mouth under the faucet water and your brain regurgitates last
night’s dream against the back of your skull. The thought of Equius’ milky
breath consumes you. Your feet end up twisted when you try to pull back the
shower curtain, and you barely manage to stop an embarrassing fall by bracing
yourself against the wall. You haven’t thought about that day in years; you
banished that part of your life to the shadowy place beyond the horizon line
after the first time you held Dave in your arms.
Whatever happened to that guy anyway? There’s no way Equius was his real name.
You seal two waterproof bandaids over the warts on your feet, and sit down at
your computer to do some digging. When you hit the spacebar with your thumbs
there’s more resistance than usual; the c key doesn’t budge until you press
harder, releasing a crunch. Some of the keys are slow to respond or sticky,
leaving a string of nonsensical letters jumbled together in the address bar.
For a minute you think you’ve broken it, underestimated your own strength and
cracked the part underneath. Then you spy it. A spider the size of a pinhead,
blending in the darker part of the woodgrain on your desk. You smear it dead
with your thumb and flip the keyboard upside while the internet boots up. You
grab a spare from the bin under your desk and switch them out, reaching for the
screwdriver on your keyring.
Bugs don’t really bother you, but after a couple hours clicking links your
paranoia gets the best of you, and you’re convinced spiders have infested your
electronics. The first search for Equius comes back hopeless, returning with
pictures of horses or constellations, and once, a picture of a huge horse dick.
None of this is what you’re looking for. At least not now. You save the horse
photo for later and dig through a list of old contacts from when you used to
work in the industry.
Once the responses start trickling in he isn’t all that hard to locate.
Multiple people appear to have a variety links pertaining to the pornstar
Equius Zahak. You’re halfway through dismantling the keyboard when AOL finally
loads one of them. It’s an online state obituary listing, and right in the
middle, between the last names Zagoorni and Zanbar, is Equius Zahak.
Deceased, since 1985.
Please drop_by_the_archive_and_comment to let the author know if you enjoyed
their work!