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charleslee-valentine · 3 months

Text

Headcheese

For the Texas Chainsaw Massacre Disability Pride Month Event: Day Two- Weird Lookin’

Word Count: ~9,700

Warnings: Ableism, especially internalized, and use of ableist slurs. Implied domestic abuse. Delusions- Nubbins Sawyer canonically has schizophrenia and this fic explores that. This includes mild religious delusions, fantasies about violence, slight medical delusions, and applying thoughts and motivations to others. Brief descriptions of harmful stimming. Canonical self harm. Misogyny. Inaccurate diagnoses and language. Period typical everything. Several instances of animal cruelty. Blood and violence.

Disclaimer: The dialogue is not original. All dialogue is pulled from the screenplay script which was still called ‘Leatherface’ or ‘Headcheese.’ This fic serves as an internal reflection/stream of consciousness during a canonical scene; interpretations, headcanons, etc are mine.

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His hair is sweaty, dropping little beads down his back in addition to an already soaked shirt. Nubbins scrunches his neck back to squish out the wetness, the inside of this van no better than out in the heat or at home. At least the windows is open at home, unless Bubba got scared of bein’ alone again and shut ‘em all up.

The van he’s in makes all kinds of noises, sputtering and coughing fuel behind it like roadkill entrails. The stink of gasoline always made Nubbins’ head dizzy, when it’d waft off the generators. Makes him wiggle a little every time the van struggles to get to speed on the long stretch ‘ road.

Better than walkin’ still. Nubbins been cooped up inside, couldn’t stand one more second at home waitin’ for Cook to do all the fun work bringin’ home food. Can’t get in trouble anyhow if he feeds the family by takin’ this trip. But he got tired of all the wanderin’ a good while ago without any excitement. Closest he got was the harsh ping of a crushed up Coke can smacking against the back of his head when it was thrown from a Cadillac. ‘Bout knocked him stupid.

The heat always makes him itch. Big brother would always tell folks, when he was just a tiny thing growin’ up, that the marks didn’t mean much, ‘cept it ain’t true. Where it’s red it burns like fire under his skin when he’s out in the sun so much. His arms too, where he’s got sores poppin’ up like prairie dogs been tunneling in his flesh. All the running made him tired of it even more now. Breathless from his run.

Franklin, the wheelchair man from the van group, don’t give him much a chance to recover.

“You getting off on the smell of all that blood, man?”

Nubbins feels a pull on the left of his face that’s got nothing to do with unpleasant feelings. He’d like to think he manages a smile, intrigued by the attitude on that man. There’s sweat in his eyes he got to blink away, turning the attempt at pleasantries into more like a grimace.

“I-It's a good smell.” He comments vaguely.

A girl from the front seat shares a look with meaning with Franklin, though Nubbins is left out of understanding it. His interest turns sour as the slaughterhouse floors when she says, even not directly to him, “Oh.. I don't like it.”

“I think we just picked up Dracula.” Franklin murmurs back.

Nubbins knows that isn’t nice. Don’t know what it means, but the way it’s said isn’t nice. He digs the ends up his fingers into the tender flesh around his scabs, tearing one open. Gotta make it to hurt when snide remarks just become backround noise. Heard ‘em so often the sting’s gone dull.

The other man here in the back talks and it takes Nubbins a moment to soak in his words, “Where you headed, man?”

“South.” Nubbins answers quickly. Ain’t safe to give more detail, just gotta get home.

Though Nubbins does crack a knowing smile when he realizes he’s thinkin’ ‘bout safety warnings, when he’s the one who is danger. Makes him seem pleasant.

Franklin makes a funny expression back with his eyebrows, squishing them all up, “You could have fooled me. I thought we were headed due north.”

Nubbins turns his stare on Franklin, but the words to respond doesn’t come right away. Mostly cause he ain’t sure which is being truthful, him or the wheelchair man. Been a long time out on them roads. Might’ve lost track of his direction.

Wouldn’t he get the whoopin’ of a lifetime if he went and got himself lost up.

But the other guy seems to think Franklin tells lies more, jutting towards him with his thumb, “He had a little accident- still doesn't know where he is..”

Until then, Nubbins hadn’t taken note of all the bruises and bloody lines on the man, sitting up straighter as his eyes trace over every last scrape and bump. Looks like big brother got a hold of Franklin too. If that was possible, maybe then Nubbins would’ve got somethin’ smart to say, but as is, he just stares and wonders.

While he’s lookin’ Franklin starts talkin’, askin’ up, “You work at that place?”

“N-No.” Nubbins answers simply, choking on a stutter while the rest of his brain catches up.

Don’t got a chance before the blonde girl gives him a new question, interrupting him so he’s got to think of a new answer all over and force himself to speak it, “How did you get stuck way out here?”

“I w-was at the slaughter h-house.” Nubbins’ voice feels like cotton in his throat. His little brother was right that he shouldn’t have broken the rules and gone out, the outside world already much too overwhelmin’ to his senses. Might help if all the folks in this van wasn’t starin’ at him so hard. Could tell them the truth, ‘at he was tradin’ with the old slaughterhouse, givin’ some of big brother’s vouchers to the men there who used to boss them around in trade for supplies and things.

Meat hooks, cattle irons, recipes, the like. Couldn’t get ‘em no place else to handle their own special kind of beeves. They’s lucky the old man of the slaughterhouse was Grandpa’s bestest friend in the world. ‘Ccepts them free gas and barbecue tickets like that’s any good enough, then pat Nubbins on his bony back and send ‘im back home on his way.

Stings his pride some, the pretendin’ to be civil after they sended him off with a pink card in his blood-stained hands. Him and little Bubba both. They was gonna let Grandpa and big brother stay, but they walked. And now Nubbins does all his walkin’, all over the roads, ‘cause the Sawyers gotta play niceys or they’ll get sniffed out.

His vagueness, the van folk don’t seem to like it much. Funny thing is those sour faces kill off any more words that might’ve been comin’.

The wheelchair man, Franklin, he ain’t in work either, understands the vengeful sorta shame Nubbins’ got boilin’ under his scratchy flesh.

“I have an uncle that works at a slaughterhouse.”

He’s good at that, at makin’ Nubbins feel like he already knows the inside of his head, so he makes sure to manage an answer, tell him a little on his family too, “M-My brother worked there, my g-grandfather… My family's a-always been in meat.”

It comes out punctuated by the tiniest laugh, satisfied with himself for being smart, knowing more than folks who thinks it’s the other way ‘round. Nubbins leans back some and wiggles his shoulders, working his pride into his physical self too, to burn off the happies before that becomes too much too and suffocated him whole.

Nubbins misses a second interaction between the Hardesty siblings in hushed tones, as much as they seem different from Nubbins hisself, they ain’t quite on the same page with one another either.

“Don't start talking about that place again..”

“A whole family of draculas..”

But Franklin can’t help himself. He liked the way the hitchhiker expressed things, the strange sort of lilt in his voice like he ain’t talked much to other people to know how inflection works. His batty eyes and flailing limbs, he might as well be some part cattle himself, escaped from the slaughterhouse and seekin’ refuge here. Hate to have to tell him the others wouldn’t be so keen on that. Might be best if that particular idea got lined up in the shoot.

“Hey man, did you go into the slaughter room or whatever they call it.. The place where they shoot the cattle with the air gun.” Franklin motions vaguely himself, wrists forming the air gauge and the bolt.

It wounds him some. Always said that automation was the thing put the Sawyers outta the business, but it ain’t true. Nubbins was a real good listener, better at that than talkin’ most times, hearing from around hushed whispers and corners in the house that it was him got them all the boot. His fit.

Had ‘em all his life, but actin’ that way was strictly against the rules at work. Drayton wouldn’t ‘llow it for a second. Always done his best, Bubba too, goin’ on pretend smoke breaks to just spin around in the fresh air and play together if the workin’ grew too much pressure.

‘Til a beeve kicked him in the chest. Made Nubbins get the jitters real bad, worked up over the pain and adrenaline and everyone ‘round him coming to stare. They was scared too, for the state of his ribs, ‘n all that was too much to handle. He’d just bounced a little at first, waving his arms around, sniveling some. Would’ve worked it all out on his own if it weren’t for a big noise. Metal hitting metal and then yelling for clearance and the beeves making their chuffing noises. Goin’ down the chute.

Nubbins only crouched down and covered his ears, but then he was yelled at for stopping work, and there’s blood in his hair cause his hands was still soaked from slittin’ a throat, so he lashed out. Cryin’ his eyes out, he swung for the boss’ face, slashed the big bowie knife they give him, and now there’s more screamin’ and he’s curled up in a ball, knees to his chest, again.

Big brother explained it away by sayin’ it was part of his condition in his brain, the same one Bubba’s got, so that was it. ‘Stead of things changin’ ‘round the slaughterhouse, Nubbins and Bubba had to go away. And the whole fam’ly followed.

“Yeh, it's nice, b-but the..the gun is-” He starts, face fallen serious and dull upon reflecting those memories.

At the same time, Franklin had started speaking. “I was there once with my uncle.”

“-is no good. The old way, w-with the sledge is better, they die b-better.” Nubbins finishes, looking up at Franklin when he realizes, slowly, that he talked over him. He flinches, just so, hopin’ to not gettin’ in trouble for that.

In a way he does, when the puffy haired girl on the floor gives her disgruntled opinion, “You like talking about morbid things.”

Big brother taught him to behave ‘round strangers, so as much as he’d like to, Nubbins don’t stick his tongue out at the girl or spit in her hair. He imagines it though, among worse things. Throwing her face down into the moving tires of this here van for example.

“How come? I thought the gun was better.” Franklin asks, bringing Nubbins back to the front of his head.

Which he shakes, messy hair slicked back with grease it don’t hardly move.

“No.. I li-like the old way better. A lot of p-people don’t got work now w-wit’ the new way.”

“You used to do that?” The dry haired man asks, but Nubbins doesn’t like the way he says it, somethin’ about the judgement from his lady pal seeping into his demeanor too.

Looking between them, Franklin notices and takes over, asking too, “You do that, man?”

“Yeh.. I-I was the killer. I don't d-do it no more.” Nubbins explains carefully.

“How come, man?” Franklin asks, but Nubbins doesn’t really wanna talk about that, so he doesn’t. Makin’ him would just lead to another fit.

When he come in the van, he’d really thought Franklin was gonna be the mean one, with his confusing comments right in Nubbins’ face, but now he thinks he’d be upset about sharin’ the unpleasant details. Doesn’t want a nice man to think of him that way.

Not while knowin’ he’s being talked about behind his back. The puffy haired lady leans to the other man, telling whispers that Nubbins can’t hear but they’s both looking right at him, thinkin’ he must be too dumb to know it.

“I can't believe he did that..”

“Now I'm an artist.. With the- the gun and knocking board they don't n-need me no more.” Nubbins turns away from the whisperers and tells it just to Franklin.

“You're an artist? Pam's an artist too. She’s really good.” The pretty blonde girl hums her words. Her voice is too sharp, all of it’s startin’ to make him fuzzy.

Nubbins slips his head to the side to look between her and that other pinched face lady. Makes him angry. Blondie’s under the mental tire too now, teeth knocked out of her tiny skull and scattered all over the road. Unknowingly to hisself, Nubbins’ eyes’ve gone unfocused, distant and empty while he’s in the torture chamber up in his skull.

“Hey..” Franklin says a bit too softly, understandin’ more than maybe anybody why bein’ compared to Pam could sting. If they all want so badly to group him in with the roadkill scented stranger, then he’ll take a little pride in that over bein’ another one of the non-political hippies. The type who think the world gets to be sunshine and rainbows so long as the whiny cripples like him stay hidden along with the other undesirables. Peace and love and only the good stuff.

The gentle voice sort of breaks Nubbins’ mind in two. Nobody talked to him that way in a long while, since throwin’ fits and scraped knees and tangled hair was still cute as a kid. It’s easiest to repeat himself, “Yeh.. I-I don't like it now. With the gun it’s no..”

They isn’t listening. Maybe Franklin is, since he’s still lookin’ that way, but the front seat blonde isn’t. She flicks her hair away from her shoulders and grills him, “Are you a painter or what? I know this crazy artist. He never knows what he's doing.”

“I work with uh.. l-leather. I'm a sculptor t-too.” The words just kinda tumble past his teeth without much awareness. Lucky he didn’t spit out the truth about workin’ in bones.

Sometimes his lonely just outweighs his angry. Makes him go actin’ foolish.

Franklin brings him back to him, with his fun voice, like a stinger’s buzz in his ears ‘stead of industrial grindin’, “Hey, man. I was in there. They had blood about up to...”

Delighted by somethin’, only ‘cause she’s obvious she’s already among the dead in Nubbins’ mind, the blonde laughs at more slaughterhouse talkin’, “Oh. I need one of those hammers for Jerry. He’s so hardheaded.”

They doesn’t wanna talk about Mr Jerry at the wheel, so they don’t. Jus’ like before. Nubbins starts to sees it that Franklin’s the way he is when he Franklin keeps on instead, “-your ankles covering this giant room. There were these big cow heads they had cut off sticking up out of the blood.”

Brings back Nubbins’ smile, “I-It's that way now.. Y-You liked it?”

“Sure. Lots of blood and guts. They dump all the entrails and heads and…” Franklin shrugs while he talks, bouncing about. The life he talks with keeps him firmly in the non-meat category in Nubbins’ mind. His energy’s as familiar as the subject.

Nobody ever liked those same things before. Franklin’s just special like that. For his troubles, the troubles of kindness towards someone awful through and through the way Nubbins is, he gets the reward of seein’ his pictures.

The critter pouch on his necklace fell inside his shirt while he was runnin’, gotta reach in to free it so he can show off his pictures. Older now and startin’ to wither some, he don’t let just anybody get they’s paws on these. But he hands them right over, proudly even, to Franklin.

Franklin who keeps on talking while Nubbins’ shakin’ the photos in his face. “..and stuff they don't use in one place and sell it to the glue factory or someplace like that.”

“Here.” He gives the permission, and Franklin finally goes and takes the pictures, the three yellowed ones that’s up for grabs.

One’s of the slaughter room, ankles deep in the blood just like he said. It’s from Nubbins lookin’ straight down, at the way it’s all pooled around him. Would be nice if they had a room like that at the house, but they isn’t allowed, gots to scrub the kitchen walls when they gets too splattery from the butcherin’. The picture though shows the heads of cattle cutted clean off their big ol’ bodies ‘n scattered about the room, just floatin’ along. That part Nubbins didn’t like so much, when they’d get left about like that. ‘Course that was the only pieces they was willin’ to send the Sawyers’ way for dirt cheap.

That first one’s his favorite, the other two more recently shot, noticeable right away ‘cause it shows the industrial equipments all around. The bolt and the gun and all that, the slicing up of the beeves. Ain’t his work so it ain’t his pride the same way. Just close documentation of what they says is more important. A gun over a retard.

But he’s smart! Knows more’n this lot, “They don't send the heads away.”

“Damn!” Franklin holds the photos away and down, like when big brother can’t see without his glasses, before bringing them right back up real close.

“Let me see.” The same irritating woman demands, but Franklin is inspecting them down to the gory details. Let fin’ himself be learned.

“Th-They make-” Nubbins tries to keep his attention held right there, casting the moment in gooey amber so it never goes nowhere.

“You took these, huh?” Franklin interrupts.

His enthusiasm and the pointy smile he gives is real enough Nubbins forgives him.

“Yes. Y-You like ‘em?”

“Franklin....” Blonde lady whines to see the photos, big bug eyes pleading with nobody who’s lookin’.

If Nubbins were more a little more observant, he’d note the jealousy from the girl, the way she sees him as some kind of strange adventure and not just a stranger. There’s danger in the way he smells and the crimson color hidden deep behind pale brown irises and the way his limbs clamber and pull. To her, a monster she can tempt into chasing her for the sheer thrill of it, in the safety of a group of people who know nothing of the way her morbid mind works.

Except maybe Franklin, and his fascination for those damned photographs he won’t let go.

The hitchhiker, as she knows him, inches forward, heels putting so much pressure on the ground his boots creak and flake off old material, so he can prop slightly up to gesture at the photographs.

Like he never left off, he continues his story, about the processes of the big house, violence radiating easily off of him, “They make head cheese.. E-Except for the tongue they b-boil the head, and scrape the b-bone clean of flesh. All the parts is used, n-nothin’ is wasted. The- The jowls, ‘n the eyes, even the m-muscles-“

“Ugh.” There's a groan from miss pretty, as she must realize, this kind of horror is all too real for her. He really had killed ‘em, over and over he had, and that’s too much for a little sheltered lady. Not for his friend though, nice Franklin.

Nubbins gets so worked up thinkin’ it, he’s talkin’ with his hands and rocking slightly, “and ligaments and the fleshy parts from the n-nose and gums- They put everythin’ into a jelly of f-fats!”

“Look at this.” Franklin urges, waving the blood picture in the face of the girl on the floor while Nubbins is still talking, keepin’ his eyes on the man now even with the photograph is moved away.

“..the f-fleshy parts from the nose and…”

This lady ain’t amused even in the slightest, slapping them away so much a new crease forms in the corner of Nubbins’ picture.

“Ugh.. You’re making me sick. Why do you like killing so much?”

Nubbins knows why.

Killin’ is a business, but they says if you get a job you like you don’t work a day in your life. Bringin’ blades across weak throats and feelin’ familiar warmth all up and down his body, smellin’ familiar smells and findin’ home in that. Home bein’ the little squirrely he found torn to bits by a coyote in the fields. Home bein’ the slaughterhouse once upon a time. Home bein’ with his brothers. Changes, but the reason don’t.

You do it to survive. And life is a gift. Mama and Gramma and Pa prob’ly too by now, they’s all gone. Big brother tells about how every one of them was sick as babies cause Mama didn’t stop her habits for a little bump on her tummy, comin’ out all kinds of messed up. They was never meant to live, skin kissed by the devil’s false affection on his right cheek to show it.

If he can’t be normal, can’t be loved, can’t be a ‘functioning member of society,’ -whatever that means- then he oughta either just be dead, or shake up the devil’s wishes. Nubbins chooses the second. Can’t be killed cause he fights to live and exchanges plenty of souls for his own. Gotta eat the meat and he gets another point from the heavens above to not end up in his early grave.

Likes doin’ it cause it’s a blessing so it makes him feel nice. Franklin, he must be smart enough to see that, gifted in his own way. The denim man said Franklin had an accident, and Nubbins sees those wheelies clear as day. That’s two mess ups. Figures whatever he’s been through, he can see death the same. Makes him truly special, not just on account of his niceness.

“-gums.. Th-They put e-everything into a jelly of fats!”

Nubbins shifts a hopeful gaze into Franklin’s, locking eyes while he scans for a sign that the other is being truthful when he says,

“Wow.. I didn't know that's what's in that stuff.”

“I-It's real good.. You like it?” His heart beats like some kind of a winged creature got swallowed up and lives in his chest. Important to him Franklin doesn’t reject the work, the gift.

First come the blondie girl, handing back the photos she’d taken straight from the hand that extended them into her friend’s face before. Along with it, more attitude, “Ugh..I don't see how anybody could eat that junk.”

Nubbins falters, shoulders slowly sinking down, bloat-air let out of him and stinkin’ up the already acrid van with disappointment.

Immediately Franklin sees that and gives his input a little bit louder, “Oh. I like it. It's good..”

Nodding, Nubbins lets him see more smiles instead of hiding it, a little wispy laugh following along. The creature in his chest turns into a whole colony of ‘em when Franklin hands his snapshots back with a returned nod. Even dumb old Nubbins knows that means he’s talkin’ to him, and not those others. He knows Nubbins knows he’s meant for slaughtering meat too.

Then he realizes the others must see it too. Prob’ly why they keep him from his legs workin’. Nubbins seen it before, what happens when the hacksaw breaks apart the rope down your spine. He’d bet anything they done that to Franklin, and he prolly don’t even know it. Grief joins the overwhelming joy in his body. It’s not just that they’re ignorant, airheaded little things just floatin’ on through their part of Texas and paying the angel’s price.

Their mean words and their dumb hearts, it’s all on purpose, weapons to keep them apart.

And they’s sharpenin’ their blades.

Pinchface girl covers her mouth with the back of her hand, but her eyes tell it all, the coldness there like lookin’ into two empty sockets.

“It sounds horrible.. Talk about something else.”

Sweet, unaware Franklin tries to light a match can burn away the tension, “Aw, you would prob’ly like it if you didn't know what was in it.”

Nubbins just knows if his brothers saw how really really smart Franklin could be, they’d let him keep him.

It’s a shame they’s outnumbered so bad, woulda been easier work if only one of the beeves was so mean and not all of ‘em. The same girl raises her hackles and her voice at the same time, actin’ like hunted prey just on account of bein’ around different folk. Weak.

“No I wouldn't and I wish you would quit.”

“Aw..” It hurts Franklin. Gotta toughen him up some, teach him the way to wrap himself in a shell of calcified rot and pure leather. Even if it had to be literal the way it did for little Leatherface, they could make Franklin masks too.

“Come on, Franklin, you're making everybody sick..” The floor man says scornfully.

Poor Franklin bows his precious curly head some, muttering, “Ok.. Ok…”

But his nature, that Nubbins knows is under there, comes out to play. Franklin, in his disappointment, sits glumly for a while. While the others stay quiet, Franklin brings out a little blade and starts toyin’ with it. Flicking it around like a butterfly blade, only it isn’t one. Nubbins can’t help but stare.

Franklin stops for a moment to dig under his nails with the knife, bringing Nubbins to imagine him popping each one off. Pop. Clatter. Screams. No need to waste that on Franklin when he ain’t the one that oughta be hurting. They’ll rip ‘em off of anyone else that gets in they’s way.

Noticing his affection and lettin’ it egg him on, or really just in his own fit, Franklin starts to work himself into a frenzy. Nubbins starts rockin’ a little harder in his mutual excitement over what they’s gonna be able do together. The thoughts in his head get so splatter sticky and cruel he starts to grind his teeth out loud. Puffy haired lady notices and openly points, no shame in her cruelty. Her beau just kind of shrugs, but he’s got disgust in his features just as clearly.

Nubbins can’t help using his rocking to urge himself forward, straining upwards against their judgemental glares towards Franklin. What he wants is to reach for that beautiful knife and show him just how to use it, but the plan is t’ get ‘em all home, feast on them together with Franklin ‘stead of scaring him off now. More giggles tear at his throat and bubble up without his permission.

The clueless driver interrupts and just ruins everything, “We're going to have to stop for gas fairly soon.”

“Th-There’s a place not far.” Nubbins remembers to answer. A big van-ful right into big brother’s lap, oh he’ll be so proud! Maybe he’d even spare Nubbins the beating for leavin’ the house with little brother all on his own again.

“Good enough.” Hums mister driver, no idea he’s fallin’ right into the trap.

See, Nubbins can be smart!

Only thing, he’s got to make sure Franklin ain’t wheeled right into the cattle pens too. He stares at Franklin intently, hoping naively if he looks long enough, he won’t ever have to go away.

Conversation or not, the stare is what brings Franklin out of the tiny fit he sunk into when he was toying with that blade of his. Now Nubbins gets a real good idea. Family is made from blood. Sharin’ his blood with another man would make him family too, share the mark right along with the name, a virgin’s sacrifice of sorts.

Nubbins finally snatches up the old blade.

The floor couple stares and gasps and shifts around warily, but they don’t mean nothin’ to no one. This is Franklin’s knife. And Franklin, though a little startled from the way his mouth falls a little bit open, watches with intense curiosity. Won’t tear those eyes away for nothin’. Nubbins closes the blade in his hand, gettin’ a good look at the whole thing, bubbly laughter piercing his own ears in a detached kinda way as he presses the silver spring button and the blade springs open again.

Slowly and on purpose-like, he puts the blade against the fleshy part of his hand, below the thumb and over his thick palm. Nubbins looks up to make absolutely sure Franklin is watchin’ what he’s doin’ for him. Blood is a real valuable resource afterall.

The blade sinks nice into his flesh. Kinda dull, the fibers pulling apart one at a time instead of all at once. His blood comes out real slow and dark, his new wound aching in a way that makes touching the cool blade feel nice ‘n soothing. Franklin is awed, eyes wide and alive instead of turned away.

Nubbins thinks sometimes that he ain’t a creature of the flesh, but the dealer. The trader. He’s the killer. Doesn’t wanna hear the various calls of distress, when even the front seat couple take notice. Keeps his smile good and fixed on his face so they don’t know it pinches at his chest some to be screamed at and not act out back.

“What are you doing!?”

“Put that knife away.”

“What did you do to yourself?”

Flexing his palm, Nubbins finds Franklin’s gaze again, to reassure him in one way that a reaction ain’t necessary. Remembers this was all for him, the exchanging of the blood, so he extends the knife back up to him, tilting the blade upwards some so he don’t have to grab it. Not yet.

And Franklin takes it.

The blood, the wound, it’s starting to dry up and panic nips at the edges of relief. Like if he lets it go away then Franklin will change his mind. He puts his hand into his mouth and bites down hard on the cut, making it gush again.

Blonde lady grimaces at him somethin’ fierce, “Ugh. How can you do that!?”

It’s real easy. He could show her. Franklin’s still lookin’ real hard at his knife, so Nubbins brings out his own. That trusty straight razor from inside his boot. Wants to carve a more pleasant expression onto Blondie’s face an’ show her exactly how simple it is.

“This is making me sick. Can't we let him off somewhere?” The puffy haired one asks quietly. Silly her not knowing this blood means that ain’t never gonna happen.

Not caring that it’s gonna scare her, he waves the razor some, “I-I have this k-knife.”

“You can put that one away too.” The beau that matches scared girl chides.

“It’s a good knife.” Nubbins promises, but returns it quietly to his boot when he sees they ain’t willing to reach out and lose a few fingers. Oh well, since it ain’t supper time yet, he can be patient.

His mind drifts off from himself in the wait, his stare fixing straight forward and landing on the girl up there. He can feel eyes on him, and cold blood on his skin, but he can’t quite snap out of it. Best to let it ride over. Fighting it just makes him go into a bigger upset.

Franklin, in turn, is staring right at Nubbins, that same morbid fascination written all over his expression. Can’t understand why he’s not afraid like the others. All his life he’s known little kids to point and ask why he’s using a chair for old folks, had peers gawk at him when he gets one of his spells and panics. Somethin’ about his trouble bein’ both physical and mental that turned him jaded in a lot of way.

Gullible, sure, in that he believed his sister when she said he’d have fun today, but never fully trusting. Like he’s always waiting for betrayal. Maybe that’s just it, that he ain’t all that surprised his hitchhiker friend turned out to be a little off his rocker. Better than secretly resenting Franklin, or spitting in his supper ‘fore handing it to him, or playin’ tricks on him.

It’s only after a little while of that reflection, that he notices the hitchhiker don’t got eyes on him, or care he was accidentally staring. He’s likewise staring at Sally, who herself notices both of them looking and turns. Her face is suddenly marred by discomfort, a smile that doesn’t even look quite like a good pretend one.

That shouldn’t make Franklin more uneasy than a stranger’s blood all over the knife in his pocket. But fake Sally means: “Of course you can come, Franklin, you’re my brother.” which means “Oh is he finished whining yet?” and “Again? Really?” and “It's been a bad day for you, hasn't it? Poor Franklin.” All which leads to him tumbling ass over end off a hill, and of course he’s gonna take more issue with that.

Instead of getting his knife out again to fidget with, figuring that’s just a recipe for disaster all over the place, he taps his hands on the arm rests of his wheelchair. The movement, and the dull plasticky sound of it, seems to reverberate into Nubbins’ head and pull him out of his little daze.

His eyes blink and drag ‘round slowly around, between Jerry and Sally now. Just from the clues he’s gotten so far he’s starting to make connections about the group, trying to piece together what the mess they’s gonna deal with later on will be like.

“This girl is your wife.” He questions eventually, making vague little motions with his hands.

The girl on the floor taps mister driver to get his attention, “Jerry..”

“Oh. Uh..no. My friend...my girlfriend.” Jerry sputters out stupidly. Nubbins would like to poke him with needles and rip out his hairs and see if he sounds goofy like that when he screams and begs.

His eyes light up but drift away again, knowing he has to wait for that fun. A pink freckled face greets him. Miss blondie don’t like bein’ talked about. Startin’ to understand why she’s always whining to get her hands on things, cause she’s spoilt for attention. The favorite like baby brother, without the special reason of her messed up face or lack of speakin’.

Keeps her clueless and plump, like big brother would say, but this one is curious and too skinny. Might be better just to do away with her, not take away one scrap off, ‘cept maybe her face. Wouldn’t that be a nice surprise for the youngest, showin’ off this new face he can takes and turn into a mask. He’d just love that.

“Th-That's good.. She's a good girl.”

“Thank you?” She says like she doesn’t get it, shiverin’ like there’s worms goin’ down in her shirt and she’s squirming away from ‘em.

Maybe the hair is too long for little brother’s taste. No use in peelin’ the skull jus’ to throw it all out. Could sell her down at the station instead, replace some of that awful meats they won’t eat and the customers don’t enjoy much neither with sweet and tender flesh. Could get rich off it and go back to slaughtering any real piggies that comes their way with a nice side of luxury.

Just the thought makes him ball his fists and shake them, too full of all these ideas it’s starting to seep out and take up all the space in the van.

The piggyest of the bunch, he don’t wanna eat. Franklin needs to be alive to listen, and share knives with, and talk to Nubbins real nice like he does. They can fatten him up on that headcheese he likes all they wants, but ain’t nobody gonna do the killing of his Franklin ‘less he says.

The Cook can sell blondie, but then Bubba needs somethin’ to sweeten the deal too.

He shifts to the other little lady all balled up on the van floor, takes note she’s got brown eyes like his bubba’s, and a tinker-bell bracelet he’d just love on her wrist. Comes free with clippies in her hair and pretty pale skin, and he knows she’s the one he oughta keep in one piece.

“You're a nice girl too..”

“Thanks.. You're a nice guy..” This girl responds robotically to him, without lookin’ in his face. Nubbins might be retarded but he ain’t stupid. ‘Course that means she don’t like him. Scared of catchin’ what he’s got.

What he wants is to stick his tongue out at her, slash his knife across her stupid face and chest ‘til she’s got blood in her eyes and she’s thrashin’ like a dyin’ cattle. His bubba would be so upset if he brought him a lady like that and wasted the face, and then he’d kill Franklin right back, and they’d got nothin’ but skinny girl meat goin’ to waste and everyone would be upset. Let little lady be mad, but he ain’t gonna let this plan go to waste.

Not even if he’s got to bite on the insides of his cheeks to make it happen, the focus.

Franklin leans back into his line of vision, looking so concerned and eager he might get sick everywhere.

“We're all nice..”

“Yeh.. Y-You're all nice.” Nubbins repeats with a smile, scooting on his haunches to get closer to Franklin again, so close his outstretched limbs is able to brush against his. All the while he’s pretty sure now Franklin can tell what he’s thinkin’, what with the way he’s so good at keepin’ Nubbins on track and calm. Throws him a bone so he knows he’s not the one chosen to become meat. “B-B-But you got them w-wheels.”

“What difference does that make?” Franklin barks, absolutely horrified. He looks down at his own paralyzed legs and back up at Nubbins over and over, mouth open and silly lookin’. Only a real expert like Nubbins might’ve heard the high crackle in his voice when emotion almost slipped past, but even he missed it.

Got distracted by the resurgence of the blade Franklin pulls from his pocket again to toy with until his upset passes. His mouth goes all dumb and quiet again instead of promisin’ he won’t kill Franklin. That’s gotta be why he’s got messed up legs too, so’s he can’t run and he can’t go and mess things up. They’s the perfect pair. Half can’t make his mouth form words, the other can’t move. They’ll fill it in and be one whole person together.

All his life Nubbins just knowed he couldn’t be cut out for love like Gramma and Grandpa got. They was lucky they both was hunters already, neither one turned out by the other covered in gore and shooting a person straight in the back of the skull. Could take up the killing business together.

Hasn’t been one like that since. Mama never had no men and her boys never had no daddy in the picture. They was on their own so long, on their stuffy old farm with stuffy old brothers and nothin’ to do all the day away but work, and workin’ is killin’. But not if he got wheels.

Franklin ain’t edible, can’t be with all that metal, and that means maybe he ain’t a killer too, ‘specially not yet no how. So he’s a third thing, just like Grandpa was when he stumbled onto Gramma’s piece of land with every intention to kill her and ended up tied down in her storage barn and married within months instead.

If he gets his Frankie on that path, he’s takin’ what God gived it to him. He just really, really hopes he’s given the permissions to keep Franklin. God ain’t nothin’ compared to an angry brother and his good leather belt.

Franklin is currently taking down one more button on his shirt to reveal more untouchable, ‘probably too tough to eat flesh, and fannin’ himself off, “It's hot in here..”

That’s silly to Nubbins cause it’s hot everywhere in Texas. “Where do you come f-from?” He asks with a small snort of laughter.

“We been to Colorado, New Mexico. Kind of a vacation, looking for land too.” Franklin tells him, waving his hand here and there. Doesn’t seem to like it much.

“Doing a little skiing.” Floor man adds on, explaining the big sword looking things leaning against the back wall in this little van. All the junk ain’t good junk, the nasty, clunky, plastic store bought garbage is all they gots. It’s startin’ to close in on Nubbins and suffocate him with a life he doesn’t live.

Feels harder to make sense.

“I mean w-where do you l-live?”

“Oh.. Houston. We’re all from Houston.” Franklin gives him a smile and it ain't like the girl’s, it’s gentle and bright and silly.

While he talks, Nubbins starts rocking forwards and back, and shaking about his wrists some more, flapping like the excited bird he is and feels on the inside. Franklin is just so so smart tellin’ him what he needs to know and that’s all. So he keeps asking questions. “Your p-parents live there too?”

“What? Oh, yeah..” Franklin gives a dismissive shrug, prob’ly don’t want to talk about it.

Maybe they’re like Nubbins’ parents and disappeared away, and he’s all alone. Or maybe they’re like big brother and get mean easy, beatin’ on the poor guy even though his legs doesn’t work. That’s prob’ly worse than anythin’ he been through. At the end of the night, Franklin ain’t running away to go burn off his frustration by kickin’ some roadkill around.

Just a shame that Nubbins don’t realize the only reason he’s still in the van allowed near Franklin is on account of he’s viewed the same way. The difference is a lot to someone who’s willing to consider it, but to the others, they’re both just crazy and annoying and easy to laugh at. Clowns for just existing.

Nubbins nods his head towards blondie, “A-And this girl.”

“What about Sally?” Franklin asks, miffed that they’re changing the subject again. He’d like to just grab this hitchhiker and scream in his face that the others don’t care about him. They never will, don’t waste your time on it.

Maybe he’d do the same for him and keep him from goin’ on another one of these stupid road-trips where he just sits around and watches. Kirk had been bragging with the skiing, showing off the poles so he could feel tougher than the guy with no qualms on using a knife. But no mention of leaving Franklin on his own while they done it. The “Sorry, Franklin. We planned this a long time ago, we never thought you’d come along at the last minute.” Like that’s even what happened.

Apparently paralyzed is s’posed to mean deaf too, ‘cause he heard very well what Kirk said when they was walking away to climb that stupid hill. “Someone oughta take one of these and shove it somewhere that it’ll put him out of our misery.”

Franklin was so mad he vomited in the snow they were skiing on. Thought about wheeling off somewhere and forcing them to come and find him and then they’d feel real sorry. ‘Til he realized they probably wouldn’t even notice he was gone. Sally, if she wasn’t distracted would, but they’d do just about anything to keep Sally from sticking up for her brother, and eventually it worked and she didn’t even try no more.

She now laughs at the hitchhiker asking them questions, “What? What about me?”

“Where are y-your parents?” Nubbins asks, sounding very polite, in contrast to his wolfish smile.

“Where are my parents?” She repeats, looking like she wants to laugh in his face some more, cruelty leaving its ashen tint on her questioning tone.

“Yeh.” Nubbins confirms, maybe naively. Maybe knowing she’s not interested in talkin’ niceties with a man she thinks is just some pawn in her adventure game.

This time she does bark a harsh laugh at him. Franklin knows his own face gets a little hot and red from the embarrassment of remembering folks laughing at him that way, treating him like an attraction. Part of him hopes the hitchhiker just won’t notice, maybe he’s been so sheltered up all his life he doesn’t realize the bully Sally and her friends can be when they wanna. Unlikely.

“What kind of question is that? Where are my parents. How should I know? My mother's probably about half drunk on martinis and my father’s probably playing golf. Where are yours?” Her hair swishes around and her head bobbles while she speaks, defensive in a way that just screams ‘who is letting this freak talk to me?’

“I-I mean where do they l-live?” The hitchhiker has to clarify again. He’s licking his lips and rolling up his shoulders in a way that it’s obvious he’s bothered, frustrated maybe. Holding down some kind of reaction.

“What does he want to know all that stuff for? We don't even know him.” Franklin hears Pam whisper to the side.

And Kirk’s louder, uninhibited response. “How should I know?”

Couple of gossips, really a whole group of them. The flush of embarrassment turns to anger for the poor hitchhiker. Franklin prays to the Lord above that if his mind ever leads him to wander and hurt himself that way, cutting into his own flesh andcsmiling about it, that a kinder group would happen to stumble upon him than this. Sorta puts into perspective how shitty they can be, makes him feel stupid for coming along at all.

Sally doubles back and answers his question anyhow, despite clearly hearing her friends discussing whether it’s a good idea or not. “Oh, where do they live? In Houston. They live in Houston.. Why?”

“Do- Do they know you’ coming t-to Houston?” Nubbins is busy assessing the situation on his own to notice what they think of him. Five is a lot to handle, never done a group that big all at once before without his brothers right on hand beside him. Important to know if somebody gonna come looking in their freezers in a day or two ‘fore they can hunt and slaughter and break down all that meat.

“Who told you we were going to Houston?” The driver guy asks skeptically. Whether it’s the failing engine or his suspicious driving, the van lurches around some.

When Nubbins motioned to who exactly did told him, that skip in the forward trojectory knocked him forward. He ends up with his hand resting fully on Franklin's pinstriped knee, and he don’t make an action to move it, “This man..”

“Let's tell him we can't take him any further when we stop for gas..” Miss puffy hair rambles quickly, not remembering to control her volume from her fear over Franklin being touched.

So Nubbins hears her loud and clear and counters, “M-My home is- is close to this road. Y-You could take me there.”

After getting a harsh nudge, the floor man speaks up, “Well, man.. I don't know. We're In pretty much of a hurry.. How far is it from the highway?”

“Oh, it’s r-real close.” And it’s true this time! They’s only another ten or so minutes out from the station at this speed if they keep it up, and that’s only another five from the house.

Back in the day, before he knew the routes by heart, Nubbins would walk the paths and count the seconds, the minutes, the footsteps it took until it was all in his bones. Drivin’ it by car is even quicker, though he usually ain’t so lucky to get carried there. Most ‘ the time they don’t pick up hitchhikers no more. Or it’s just him.

Does they all think he’s a Dracula?

“Couldn't you just walk? I mean.. if it’s so close.” Blondie talks like she regrets opening her mouth the second she done it. As she should with them awful manners.

“Y-You.. You could have supper with us!” Nubbins offers, increasingly desperate the more it seems like they ain’t gonna take him up on it, ruining just everything. It’s all gonna domino down and crush him flat like a box truck come at him full speed. His only friend in this, he singles out Franklin, “You like h-head cheese, m-my brother m-makes it good.. he always got some.”

Franklin doesn’t get the chance to speak before he’s being talked over by Blondie and her fake gagging, “Not that stuff you were talking about a while ago.. Ugh..”

“I think we better-push on, man. Sorry.” The shaggy looking guy mutters but it’s directed at Nubbins. They knows well they been mean, ashamed to look him in the face, and Nubbins don’t like it not one bit.

He shrugs it off, but his posture is so sunk in and he’s so silent, ain’t no way you couldn’t tell he’s upset. A bump in the road makes his camera clang against his ribs, givin’ him a real good idea. Nubbins raises it up and teases, laughing as he pretends to zero in on a target though he already got the perfect one in mind, aiming right at Franklin who is still just kinda absent. There’s a flash of light as the old, burnt-up flashbulb pops. Franklin looks up at it startled, but smiles, maybe automatically, a little vague, when he sees the camera.

“You took my picture.” Franklin sounds all outta breath just like Nubbins was when he runned to the van. The picture gonna help to connect them.

Under the sun, under the flash bulb, s’about the same thing. ‘Cause Nubbins don’t normally takes pictures of the living. Likes ‘em better as butchered pieces-parts for a bigger collage. Now Franklin he gotta stay this good way, startled and flushed and smilin’ just a little.

“Yeah.”

Nubbins pulls the photograph from the camera and peels apart the sheet. His film, it’d gone rotten a long time ago, the print comin’ out old and dark and discolored lookin’. Still he extends it to Franklin, only Franklin got the right to see it after all. Wants him to be proud of it. Needs it maybe.

“It didn't turn out so good.” Franklin remarks, squinting to see his own face.

“No. I-It’s nice, see -” Nubbins snatches at the photo but let’s Franklin keep looking, pointing to every detail that is his favorite to prove it’s alright. Namely the bruises and bloody scrapes, “It t-tells about your a-accident.”

A few comments float around the van:

“You look worse for wear.”

“I think you look nice.”

But blonde girl starts complaining again and makin’ it all ‘bout her, when Nubbins don’t care none about that.

“Let me see.”

Franklin extends it back towards her and gives a little warning that quicks up Nubbins’ heart, ‘cause his mind got changed about it turning out bad, “It’s kind of dark, but you can see my face.”

With girl gone, Nubbins leans forward.

What he wants, is Franklin’s word that he gonna behave and ain’t get himself killed durin’ dinner when they come. He’ll settle for a different way of tellin’ it.

“Y-You can p-pay me now.”

Franklin blinks away a mental fog but still can’t make no sense of this, “Huh?”

“Two dollars.. I-It's a good picture.”

Nubbins is nodding and giggling, can’t help himself ’cause he thinks this is it, that Franklin’s gonna understand fine what he’s got to do. His joy is met with blank faced confusion, but that’s better than discontent.

Or anger, like that he gets from the denim man.

“You want him to pay you for that picture?”

Blondie joins in the convincing, trying to ruin everything, selfish selfish girl trying to make Franklin mad at him, “It's not really a very good picture of you.”

“Not for two dollars anyway.” The floor man agrees.

“Two dollars?” Blondie asks, like she’s clueless.

Nubbins knows they’re tryin’ to corner him and narrows his eyes, holds out an expectant hand, trying to call her bluff, “Yehh. Y-You can buy it for him.”

“Hey, man, that’s enough.” The other guy barks, ordering Franklin around instead of letting him have a say, “Give him back the damn picture.”

Immediately Franklin returns the photo, and Nubbins can tell his hands have started shaking. Poor, weak Frankie let them boss him ‘round like that. Now he’s startin’ to fidget nervously again. Comparing that to his smile in the photo, which Nubbins stares at for a long moment, makes him a little sad ‘at his joy had to go.

Ain’t much room for it in this stuffy, closed-windowed world.

They keep talking about him, up in the front seat.

“That guy wanted Franklin to pay him 2 dollars for that picture.”

“You're kidding.”

“No. He was serious.”

Nobody ever asked a peep about what Franklin thought, or what he wanted. Now he’s got this little frown on and Nubbins knows it’s cause he’s scared to show the big feelings that get caught in there.

Havin’ a little brother meaned Nubbins seen all this play out before. Livin’ it was one thing, ‘n hearin’ big brother complain about the old times added to it sure, but nothin’ compared to watchin’ a miserable creature. Pinned down by its little deformed wings and screamin’ and cryin’ over invisible pain. They heads is sick, even Franklin, and the others ain’t kind to that.

Nubbins got a real good way to burn it off.

Some kind of a trash can or somethin’ is flipped over on its top like a pedestal, where he places the photo. His pouch gots a small bundle of ‘luminum foil, and a tube of gun power. He lays it out so the picture’s layin’ on its back in the foil, a little cone of the powder on top with a dip in the middle. Makin’ sure they’re watchin’, Nubbins gives a smile and a small giggly laugh, then strikes a match off his boot.

They know what he’s gonna do ‘fore he does it, but they still start screamin’ anyhow when it bangs and makes a big flash of light, burning up in fire. Smoke wafts off it while he crumbles it up inside the foil, crushing the air out of the fire so it goes out, and shovin’ it back into the pouch.

The driver man brakes hard and veers the van to the side of the road, sending all the riders forward violently except Franklin, who cracked his head off the seat behind him.

All of them start hollering over each other while Nubbins giggles at himself delightedly. Big brother woulda said he oughta be more careful, and maybe he’d ‘a been right in the case of gettin’ Franklin on his side. It’s just he can’t help havin’ fun!

“What? What?”

“What happened?”

“Hey! Damn.”

“HEY, man!”

“Roll down the window!”

Nubbins doesn’t flinch when a ski pole is shoved right in his face like a weapon. His knife is still sharper than some plastic lookin’ stick, and no fella afraid of a little fire gonna do the deed of shovin’ that thing past flesh and muscle into his vulnerable guts. Ain’t man enough.

“I've had enough, man. Time for you to go.” The guy with the ski pole warns, before turnin’ to call over his shoulder, “Jerry, stop this thing..”

It ain’t nice, but he’s losin’ control which means he’s losin’ Franklin too and that ain’t good. Can’t happen. They’s s’posed to be in this together, and more, part ‘a the same family. Betrotheds. Not the ones wanderin’ with no connection, not the mean folks. So long as he can find him again, they’ll fix it to be just right as rain. Even let Franklin carve into the one tryin’ to quiet him up if it come to that.

One half of the blood exchange been done already, with his on Franklin’s knife. Before he stands to haul ass out of the slowing down van, he snatches up his razor and flips it open, grabbing Franklin by his wrist and dragging the blade across. His blood bubbles when it comes out from all the pulling back and forth they’re doin’, and he squeals and sobs as the knife tears into him jaggedly.

Nubbins licks a crack in his lip instead of the blood from Franklin’s wound, though he’d like to see what he tastes like. Figures somethin’ like wood smoke and bitter forest berries. Somethin’ real special like a homemade pie, hold the mincemeat.

They’ll have time for that later; the ski pole guy goes for him, but tumbles back when the van lurches again and slows down to a real stop this time. Nubbins drags the door open and hops out while it’s still coasting, keeping his eyes locked with Franklin through the windows. He’s bleeding from his arm all over the place, his sister kneeling to bandage him and his friends shouting behind the closed door. But he won’t tear his eyes away from Nubbins. Can’t.

They’s covered already, relationship locked in by their tethers between their worlds, but to make sure the van don’t get lost, Nubbins rips open his palm again with his teeth and marks the side of it with his blood, pickin’ a good familiar shape so even big brother might notice it when they stops for gas up the road. Flashes one last grin Franklin’s way.

Kicking the tires, scrawling the family crest right onto the green paint, it’s perfect. Nubbins would be excited if he wasn’t realizing his own hurt by the way they throwed him out.

Speeding away means he can’t see his captive Franklin anymore, ‘n for a minute he tries to keep up. Running after and blowin’ raspberries to not lose his mind with this upset.

Until he’s sure they can’t see him no more. Then Nubbins just falls where he stands, curling his knees into his chest and hiding his face in them. His sad is anger. Teeth grit together and fists balled up, and he’s hitting the back of his head, over and over, ‘til sweat runs past his hair and he has to stop ‘n check to make sure it ain’t blood.

It’s salty tears in some places too. Feels stupid for cryin’ ‘em. Nubbins had somethin’ real special goin’ with Franklin, but them others was just mean. A thousand bodies ain’t make up for the hurt in his heart every ought time another person goes by and they’s mean to him.

But they’s all gonna get their due. Marked ‘em good, so they ain’t ever gon’ make it to Houston. Only one survivor, on Nubbins’ terms, ‘cause he’s certain now he ain’t nothin’ typical. He’s the killer.

#tcmfanevent #tcmdisabilityweek #tcm 1974 #nubbins sawyer #franklin hardesty #franknub #my writing #my fic #tcm fanfic #basically a whole almost 10k fic of nubbins rambling what more could y’all ask for

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