#i chose neons here because for whatever reason everything felt so dark this morning

[iknowwhereyousleepatnight]

this is my blog i can be a furry for like 5 minutes okay

[thelaurenshippen]

oh hey, here’s a playlist from 2017 that I realized wasn’t on my website with the rest of them and that I totally wasn’t thinking about because there’s actually a part two that has never seen the light of day that may or may not be incoming

notes on my website and also under the cut

As I write, I like to build playlists for all my characters and, occasionally, will make playlists as a character as well. These playlists are part of my writing process and I take them far more seriously than anyone should. Sometimes the playlists come together instantly and effortlessly and sometimes I play around with them for months. As such, there are a fair number of cast-offs that never make it onto the final, official playlist. That's what this playlist is.

So here we are: all the songs that nearly made it on to the character playlists but got cut for various reasons. Those reasons tend to fall into one of a few categories:

There wasn’t space / another song was serving a similar purpose

The song was right for the character but not right for the character at the beginning of their story (which is what most of the playlists are)

The mood/genre/tempo of the song was out of place in the playlist

I discovered the song after the playlists had been put together.

All my playlists are very specifically ordered, so adding or removing songs after their publication is more or less impossible. Instead, I would throw songs into this B-Side playlist as they appeared, meaning that, unlike most of my playlists, the order here is random (aka this playlist has NO flow). Here is a list of where they would have gone had they made the final cut. The characters are listed above the tracks, with a link to the playlist in question.

A/N, 2020: These are the B-Sides specifically from pre-Season 4. Back in August of 2017, I  did a sticker giveaway to see what folks would guess about which songs were for which characters - these annotations were published after that giveaway and thus, there's some reference to how people guessed!

WADSWORTH 

1. “Heavy Metal Lover” - Lady Gaga

This is a Wadsworth song through and through in terms of style and swagger. There just wasn’t space for it.

But would you love me if I ruled the world

DAMIEN 

2. “Reaper Man” - Mother Mother

This is a song that was recommended to me as a Damien song by tumblr user kalgalen and I am actively mad that I didn’t know this song before making Damien’s playlist. The style, the lyrics - everything about this song is Damien. And it actually fits perfectly after the opening track but by the time I was made aware of it, it was too late.

Oh yeah, I’m an ugly mess/not in the face, but in the head - regardless of how attractive Damien is, this is something he thinks. God, what an edgelord line this is.

Oh yeah, I got no choice/got no choice/but to love myself - I mean, it’s just all there.

A/N, 2020: this song eventually made its way onto a playlist -  my playlist for A Neon Darkness, Damien's book.

CHLOE 

3. “Her Morning Elegance” - Oren Lavie

I love that this song really conjures a visceral image to your brain - it paints such a vivid picture. It’s delicate, but determined. I think Chloe sometimes moves through her world separate and observing and that’s what this song is.

There’s also an amazing music video that I think Chloe would watch over and over again.

I got a lot of submissions guessing that this was a song for Sam and I really see that too. It fits well with the aesthetic of her playlist and the theme of fighting for your life everyday definitely resonates with Sam, as does the “Nobody knows” lyric. But the lyrics are also about being out in the world, which is something Sam doesn’t do but Chloe wants to continue to do desperately, despite her ability making it difficult.  

CALEB/ADAM 

4. “Blue and Yellow” - The Used

This was a song suggested by my sister for Caleb and Adam because of the colors involved and also because The Used was a band we both listened to a lot when we were emo teenagers like Adam. Ultimately, this song feels very dated as early emo and didn’t quite fit musically on any of their mixes, either in-universe or not.

And it’s all in how you mix the two/and it starts just where the light exists/it’s a feeling that you cannot miss/and it burns a hole/through everyone that feels it

5. “Stupid for You” - Waterparks

This is another song that was recommended to me, this time by a tumblr user and it is absolutely perfect. I didn’t even realize that there was pop punk being made like this anymore, so I was delighted.

You’re yellow, I’m natural blue/let’s get together and be green like my insides - I mean??? Couldn’t have said it better myself

Also, the refrain of “stupid for you” fits perfectly with the “I’m the guy who’s been so stupid about you that it broke my fucking super power!” I mean, I clearly ghostwrote this song.

ISO: the tumblr user who suggested this song. I have scoured both of my blogs to find the ask to no avail so if it was you, please raise your hand.

Both of these songs would go on a Caleb/Adam ship mix if such a thing existed. But in fact, both their mixes are in-universe and, while one of them might put this on a mix now, it would have been way too vulnerable of a thing to put on one of those earlier playlists. I've linked to their second in-universe mix - the quite lovey one that Adam makes for Caleb.

MARK 

6. “Time Machine" - Robyn

This definitely felt a little too on the nose for Mark, so I went with “Hang With Me” instead. But Mark loves Robyn and would love the DeLorean reference in this so it was very tempting. It’s also a song all about making impulsive decisions, which Mark definitely does a lot, but in classic Robyn style, it’s such a bop despite the serious lyrics. That balance fits Mark perfectly.

7. “F U” - Miley Cyrus

I know this song is about someone cheating, but it is such a good angry-fuck-you song that I can’t help but think of it in the context of Mark’s feelings towards Wadsworth. Having missed the heyday of pop borrowing from dubstep and the increasing use of internet slang, I think Mark would have gotten out of The AM and fallen hard for this song. I imagine many an afternoon before Joan gets home from work just angry dancing around the living room singing along to this.

SAM/MARK 

8. “Someone to Fall Back On” - Jason Robert Brown

This is 100% Sam singing to Mark about being his knight in shining armor. Sam is hard on herself - doesn’t realize her own strength - so the self-deprecating lyrics really work for her. It didn’t make it on the playlist because it felt like it was a little further down the line in their relationship - somewhere around Episode 40.

I’ll take your side/if I’m the only one/I’m used to that/I’ve been alone/I’d rather be/the half of us/the least of you/the best of me

I got a lot of guesses for Frank on this one, which completely fits. He’s quite a bit more confident in his abilities than Sam - if he thinks he can be your knight, he’ll say so right from the get-go.

9. “Can’t Get Started With You” - Ella Fitzgerald

This is pretty self-explanatory. It didn’t fit with the very particular structure that I created for the Sam/Mark playlist and it also felt like a later stage of their relationship. That playlist was them falling in love and wanting to be in the same time; this song is getting close to that but then getting pulled apart again, first by Damien and then by the difficult realties of actually trying to have a relationship. If the previous track is end of Season 3 for them, this is a Season 4 song.

A/N, 2020: it certainly is a Season 4 song, because it actually ended up going on their Season 4 playlist.

DAMIEN/MARK 

10. “Elvis Ain’t Dead” - Scouting for Girls

So…this is a reject from an as of yet published playlist. I know - not fair. Think of this as the free square on a bingo sheet. In the course of writing Season 3, I was motivated to make a playlist for a relationship that was becoming increasingly interesting to write. While this playlist could certainly be seen as a ship playlist, I have no intentions to ever put these characters together in a real way, but their dynamic was so compelling that I wanted to explore it. I will eventually release the playlist because it’s one of the best I’ve made, but I didn’t want it influencing anyone’s reaction to the end of Season 3. Loose lips sink ships.

I wish it was me you chose/Elvis ain’t dead/and you’re coming back

Okay, okay, I won’t leave you hanging because a few people actually guessed this one right - it’s from a Damien/Mark playlist. This is actually one of three unpublished Damien mixes - for whatever reason, music is the fastest and easiest way for me to connect to him. He really brings out the playlist-making skills in me.

A lot of people guessed that this was Agent Green which I absolutely love. Poor Owen.

A/N, 2020: I didn't link to the playlist originally, but it exists now! To this day, I think it's some of my best work.

ROSE 

11. “Carolina” - Harry Styles

This was mostly rejected because I felt stupid having two songs called “Carolina” on one mix and Sara Bareilles trumps Harry Styles (as much as I love him). But in style and content, this really feels like a Rose song.

[unreadable0]

kuropika answer part ii

Uh... so here’s part two of the prompt fill I wrote earlier! It’s now Halloween themed, I guess... I wasn’t exactly sure what happened here. So, yeah. The whole thing is on fanfiction.net. 

Encounter Two...

The next morning, Kurapika woke up as if everything was normal, and his suspicion that it had all been a dream was reinforced by the regular order of his room. Not a book was out of place, and his trusty knife was back in its place on the bedside table. Sighing in relief, Kurapika went on with his day with the comforting feeling of normality tucked away in his mind. Perhaps last night had been a reflection on his hate for Halloween, manifested into some oddly-attractive vampire-creep.

He went along fooling himself with this notion until night fell, and Kurapika had barely touched his head to his pillow when he felt a slight dip in his mattress. Bolting upwards, he whacked his head cleanly on what felt like a concrete wall.

But it wasn't a concrete wall.

To start with, concrete walls didn't wear suits, and they sure as hell didn't wear weird earrings. Kurapika's mind was about to go off on a crazy tangent about walls and concrete when said concrete wall hissed with pain.

"G-d, watch where your head is going."

Kurapika froze. No. Not that weird vampire creep again.

"I mean, first you stab me, and now this? I'm seriously having second thoughts on seducing you," the vampire teased.

At the word 'seduce', the modest part of Kurapika screamed in outrage. "That's what you get for breaking into my apartment, you dumb fuck! And seducing me? Ha! Good luck!"

more under the cut

"Do I hear a challenge?" The dark-haired man (vampire? Kurapika was getting confused) moved in closer, until Kurapika was being pressed into the soft padding of his mattress.

Oh sweet baby Jesus, Kurapika thought, I'm about to be molested by some pale creep! He wanted to say something, to push the other man off of him, but all that came out was, "Is this some sort of purgatory? Am I being punished for some misdeed I've done? I swear, I didn't mean to drive above speed-limit this morning!"

The other huffed, eyes alight with something that Kurapika did not want to decipher. "I've forgotten how entertaining humans are."

"Oh, shut up! You're probably some figment of my twisted imagination or something. Get off your high horse," Kurapika scolded. In his rant, he hadn't noticed the hand sliding up his thigh. "And just what do you think you're doing?"

The vampire met his accusatory glare with a mischievous one of his own. "What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Uh..." Kurapika's mind drew a blank, his usually sharp mind easily dulled by the tingling sensation spreading down to his toes.

"That's what I thought." And then the other man leaned down fully, capturing the blond's lips and taking full advantage. The vampire's lips were surprisingly soft, and they moved insistently over his own. At first, Kurapika immediately began to kiss back, as if he couldn't even control his own body.

Wait. If the weird mystery man was a vampire...

Shit. That meant that he was probably using some sort of roofie-superpower crap on him at the moment!

But was he really that opposed to it? his mind reasoned. Come on, what's the harm in this? It'll be fun. The other man was a very good kisser, and Kurapika allowed himself to sink deeper into the kiss, losing himself in the rapid race of his possibly-drugged heart.

A small part of him, stuffed way in the back of his mind, screamed at him to not lose focus. What if he kills you? Then you won't be able to take that psychology test tomorrow! At that horrifying thought, Kurapika's eyes snapped open, and he slammed a free hand up at the vampire's solar plexus. Thank god he had taken that self-defense class before college.

Predictably, the monster did not even show the slightest bit of pain, but he did break off the kiss, something that Kurapika had conflicted emotions about.

Immediately, logic and reason flooded back to Kurapika's brain, and he lunged for the blade on his bedside table. Ramming the point into the vampire's chest, Kurapika pushed the other's body off of him and scrambled towards his desk.

The knife buried in his chest didn't even slow the vampire down one bit, something that Kurapika noted with a surge of panic. Groping around blindly in the dark, Kurapika cried out in relief when his hands met what he was looking for. A nice letter opener.

Right as an arm snaked itself around his waist, Kurapika jammed the letter opener into the closest thing he could find. Which was the vampire's shoulder, incidentally. Snatching the blade back out, Kurapika put a good two meters of distance (that was as far as he could go in the tiny dorm room without bumping against a wall) between himself and the monster when he was distracted.

"Okay," the vampire conceded, voice still as eerily calm as usual, "why don't you put down that knife and we just have a nice little chat. Without the knife. Or anything else pointy. How about that, Kurapika?" For a second, the vampire's voice weaved into Kurapika's thoughts, and he found himself lowering his blade slightly before snapping out of it. Get out of my head, damn it!

"No way in hell," Kurapika hissed, waving the knife in front of him.

The vampire shrugged. "That can be arranged."

"I want some answers," Kurapika demanded, grip on the letter opener not wavering.

"And I have a question," the vampire added cheerfully, completely reversing the cliche conversation they were following. "Why won't you let me sleep with you?"

Kurapika blinked at the brazen question. Is he serious right now? "Because I have a psychology test tomorrow, and I don't even know you name—"

The other man cut in, "I can arrange to have you take it next week, if that's what you want. And my name's Kuroro, if you really must know."

The blond frowned, continuing despite the interruption. "... and I don't exactly want to wake up tomorrow dead or in some sort of vampire hell or whatever."

"Okay, first of all, vampire hell doesn't exist. We don't really die much, you see. And no, I wouldn't kill you after I'm done—I won't even take your blood; there are blood banks for a reason—because that would be terrible manners, and it would completely mess up my plans next week."

"Plans?" Kurapika asked suspiciously.

Kuroro smirked. "Why, my plans to come back to you for round two, of course!"

Face rotating through multiple shades of red, Kurapika spluttered."Excuse me?"

"Relax. I'm kidding," Kuroro assured him, although his expression said otherwise.

The blond did his best to clear out all the sordid thoughts in his mind before speaking, but a blush still dusted his cheeks prettily despite his efforts. "Wait, why me? I'm sure someone next door would be much more willing. I'm sure you wouldn't want me!" Kurapika tried to tell him waving his frantically in front of him. "Because... because..."

He searched frantically for an excuse.

"Because what?" Kuroro pressed, stalking closer. "Because you're already seeing someone?"

"I—"

"That's not possible," the dark-haired man murmured, now that their faces were barely a few inches apart. "I've been gathering information on you for quite a long time, Kurapika." Kurapika refused to meet his stare, backing up until a wall hit his back.

Well, I'm as good as dead. It was always at this point that the people in the movies got killed.

"You intrigue me because you're intelligent, but also logical," Kuroro went on, bringing up a hand to cup the blond's chin. "You always act calm, composed, but I can tell that there's something else: anger. You're also extremely attractive, of course, and I was bored." Kurapika tried his best to the man's cool fingers, which were sitting in sharp contrast to his flushed skin. "And as far as I know—which is everything—there is no one else in the picture. Kuroros voice lowered dangerously. "If there is... well... I'll take of them."

There were many ways that Kurapika could have responded to this. He could have stabbed the vampire again, or perhaps maced him (there was a can of it sitting an arm-length's away), or even threatened the other right on back. Of course, his logical mind was already analyzing the situation. Based on the results, Kurapika chose something completely different. A small laugh escaped him, and soon the hilarity of the situation hit him fully, causing him to collapse into a fit of laughter.

Kuroro stared at him blankly, trying to make sense of the mirthful blond in his arms. "What?" Usually when he promised to kill people's significant others, they either completely submitted to him, or immediately tried to kill him. But not this. Not that he really minded, really, as Kurapika was utterly breath-taking when he laughed. If Kuroro even had breath to take, anyways.

"I'm sorry," Kurapika apologized, wiping tears from his eyes, "but what you just said was probably one of the most cliche things I've ever heard."

"Cliche?" Kuroro asked, sounding scandalized.

Kurapika nodded. "It's a common archetype to have villains, particularly supernatural ones, to say things like that. Every movie that Neon has ever dragged me on has at least two of these in them."

"Who's Neon?" Kuroro moved even closer.

"Uh..." It took twice as long for Kurapika to think of answer than it should have. Kuroro's eyes narrowed slightly. "She's a... friend?" He really wasn't sure what Neon was to him, but it was a close tie between absolute pain in the ass and the bratty freshman that he tutored.

"A friend?" Kuroro repeated suspiciously.

Rolling his eyes, Kurapika sighed. "Are you seriously getting jealous over an eighteen-year-old heiress who has more stuffed animals than friends?" The dark-haired man scoffed.

"Well, I wouldn't need to be jealous if you'd just let me have my way, now would I?" Kuroro replied impatiently, one hand toying with the elastic band of the blond's pajamas.

"What kind of logic is that?" Kurapika exclaimed, pushing away the wandering hand.

"It's called the logic that you should listen to," the other said loftily. Kurapika gave him a deadpan stare, and Kuroro sighed, conceding. "Fine. You're honestly lucky that I like people that are willing. What can I give you that could persuade you? A house? An island? A palace?"

Kurapika thought over the offer. It wasn't as if he was repulsed by the thought of sleeping with Kuroro (quite, the opposite, in fact), and now that he knew that the chances of dying were close to zero...

"I'll agree on one condition—" Kurapika began, and the other interrupted him.

"What is it? Please don't tell me you want anything stupid."

The blond pinned him with an exasperated stare. "If you'd just let me finish, that would be greatly appreciated."

Kuroro had the sense to keep silent.

"As I was saying, I agree on the one condition that you make sure that Leorio stops stealing my food from the communal refrigerator."

"You want me to what?" Kuroro looked dumbfounded.

Kurapika ducked out of his hold. "He's always taking my food, even though I set clear boundaries upon moving in with him. You just have to figure out how to ward him off. I don't care what you do, as long as you don't physically hurt him," he explained, walking back over to his mattress. He was almost successful, making it clear six feet before a hand yanked him back, tugging him against a firm chest.

"I accept your terms. Now, what I was promised..." Kuroro said, leaning in.

Only to be blocked by Kurapika's hand, of course.

At the vampire's confused expression, Kurapika smirked. "Come back tomorrow night. After my psychology test."

[lannisterslioness]

Wild Things - One

Summary: It all started with a chance meeting and a young Jyn Erso wanting a tattoo to honor her late mother, she never thought she'd get to fall in love with the free spirited tattoo artist, Cassian Andor, who is more than used to keeping to himself.

A/N: I need to get better at writing descriptions dear god, but hey, if you are reading this than yay! This is a random AU I just thought up for these two, I wanted to write something modern for them and, well, I just got my second tattoo not to long ago! I really hope you guys like this, please let me know, I don't know how you guys will react to this yet! <3

Pairing: Rebelcaptain (Jyn x Cassian)

Words: 3,544

Rating: M

AO3: (x)

Jyn was just turned 18, and there was one thing that she knew she wanted to do as soon as possible: a tattoo. And now, rather than seeking her father’s permission, she could simply surprise him.

It was something for her mother, who’d passed away when she was still just a girl. Jyn missed her dearly each and every day, though the loss had slowly become something easier to bear.

The design was simple, a little something she’d been drawing for a few years since she’d decided on getting ink: a crystal, as her mother had been a geologist, with flowers wrapped around it. Jyn remembered how much she had loved the blooming flowers of spring, and within the crystal a small galaxy whirled for their shared love of the stars. As to where to put it, she still wasn’t sure. She’d spent ages trying to think of where it could go and hurt the least, though she knew wherever it ended up was going to sting.

She’d chose a parlor not too far from her house, somewhere she’d just stumbled upon one day while in town. The place was called Rogue One Tattoos, and she’d seen a fair share of people going out of the place with brand new tattoos that looked amazing. Today it was quiet though, so she figured not a lot of people were getting a tattoo around lunch time on a Monday - even if it was summer.

The inside of the place fit the look of most tattoo places (not that Jyn had seen many). Dark walls were covered with pictures and drawings of tattoos, small collectibles that seemed more creepy and morbid than overall decorative, really. There was no one behind the counter or anywhere in the shop when she first walked in, Jyn was worried they were closed despite their sign reading ‘open’ in bright neon.

“Hello?” Jyn called out.

“Over here.” A voice replied, so Jyn looked past the desk. She saw a man on a ladder inside the walls of a private stall carefully hanging a new picture. “I’ll be over in a minute.”

“Okay.” Jyn replied quietly. She browsed through the pictures decorating the front before she heard the man finally take a seat behind the desk. The first thing she noticed about the asian man that sat before her was that he was blind, but what amazed her was that he somehow managed to hang a picture up on the wall and climb down off a ladder with no one else to help him.

“Can I help you?” He asked, almost as though he knew she were staring, trying to figure out how he did what he did.

“Oh, uh, hi.” Jyn blurted out nervously. She couldn’t rationalize what so unnerved her---she knew she wanted a tattoo, had made the tattoo, so why did the thought of actually getting it scare her? “I wanted to see about a tattoo.”

“Well, you certainly came to the right place.” The man grinned. It was warm, and Jyn smiled . “Let me get someone who can still see, as entertaining as it would be to see a blind man try and tattoo someone.” He rose from his seat, a walking stick in hand. He didn’t use it to tap his way around, and Jyn wondered what it was for? Burglars, maybe?

She saw why: he approached a sofa towards the back of a place and prodded the man lying on it, lost in watching whatever was on the TV. There was a brief grumbling between the two before he rose and followed the other man back to the front. This man looked like someone that would work in a tattoo shop: intimidating, a seemingly permanent scowl, scars, and worn-out tattoos he must have had for ages.

“Nice to meet you, I’m Baze.” He introduced himself before gesturing to the other man. “This is Chirrut. You’re lucky you don’t have to meet Kaytoo today, or get talked into a coma by Bodhi.”

“‘Lucky’ is an understatement.” Chirrut chimed in with a grimace before taking his seat again behind the counted.

“What did you have in mind?” Baze asked her. He seemed friendlier than he looked, which put Jyn more at ease.

“This.” Jyn pulled her drawing out of her bag and handed it over to Baze, who studied it carefully before a smile crossed his face.

“Did you draw this?” He asked.

“Yeah.” Jyn admitted.

“It’s very beautiful,” he smiled, “it’s also something I think Cassian would do better than the rest of us. He comes in later today if you want to bring it by then, he can tell you when he can do it for you too.” Baze handed the drawing back to her.

“Okay, sure.” Jyn nodded.

“He’ll be in around three.” Baze added, and fell into conversation with Chirrut.

Jyn returned a little after three, and the place that had been so empty in the morning was now busy with person in every chair in the place. Chirrut was still sitting at the desk, seeming to be listening to the hustle and bustle in the place, though he still managed to notice when Jyn walked through the door without any chimes or alarms to tell him so.

“Hi, is Cassian here?” Jyn asked.

“Ah, welcome back.” Chirrut’s face lit up, recognizing her voice. “He is, I’ll go get him.”

Chirrut didn’t have to walk far before he stopped beside a young man, someone probably just a few years older than her and tattooing an owl that looked completely realistic onto some man’s leg. As Cassian paused his work to talk to Chirrut, his eyes also seemed to wander over to her right away and study her with intense curiosity. Jyn looked away quickly hoping to hide a blush. Why did such a cute guy have to tattoo her?

Chirrut came back with Cassian shortly after giving the man he was tattooing a break to sit up and walk around. Jyn tried to keep focused on the task at hand--- she came here for a tattoo and she was going to get it, even if she had to try and ignore just how attractive the damn artist was with that intense stare still locked onto her.

“Hi.” Jyn spoke up nervously, hoping she was hiding it well.

“Hi, I’m Cassian.” He held out his hand for her to shake, which she did, and couldn’t help but to notice the tattoos he had, like the tattoo of a faded forest that wrapped around his arm. “Baze said you had something for me?” He asked.

“Yeah, I do.” Jyn dug through her bag to pull her drawing out again, and handed it over to Cassian for him to look over.

His expressions were far more readable than Baze’s; as soon as he saw the drawing, something lit up in his eyes and a grin bloomed on his face.

“It’s nice.” Cassian said before looking back up at her. “Where were you thinking of getting it?”

“On the back of one of my legs.” Jyn said.

“Which side?” He questioned.

“Uhm, left side.” Jyn made a quick choice, she hadn’t thought about it much, though it didn’t really matter since it was the back of one of her legs.

“I could do it.” Cassian assured her. “It might have to be a bit bigger than your drawing to do the stars in the middle of if, but it can be done.”

“That’d be great.” Jyn genuinely smiled for the first time, and Cassian’s grew in response.

“I could do it tomorrow afternoon, I’ve got to draw this up tonight. Around noon okay?” He asked.

“Yeah, that’d be great.” Jyn nodded. “I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow then.”

“See you tomorrow.” He nodded.

When Jyn got home she felt just a bit happier, she wasn’t sure if it was because she was finally getting her tattoo, or if it was because she met a cute guy - it was probably a combination of both.

It had taken hours of Jyn sitting in a rather uncomfortable position for the tattoo to be done. Cassian had drawn it out perfectly and Jyn was trying to contain her excitement to see the finished result. He’d turned out to be good company as well, trying to keep her talking to keep her calm since it was her first tattoo and neither of them knew how she might react to the pain of it.

    “So, what does it mean?” Cassian asked her, he was finishing up the color, and Jyn was more than ready to jump out of the chair after being stuck in it for so long.

    “It’s for my mom.” Jyn said. “She passed away when I was younger, but she was a geologist. She always loved crystals.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” He replied. “But hopefully if she were still around she’d like this. You’re all done.” Cassian turned off the machine and wiped down Jyn’s leg before slathering it with cream. “Want to look at it?”

“Of course!” Jyn was bubbling with excitement and sort of regretted moving as quickly as she did with the slight bit of pain reminded her of her new tattoo.

As soon as she looked into the mirror, she loved it instantly. It had turned out better than expected, and Cassian had done one hell of a job with it. It stung like a terrible sunburn, but seeing how wonderful it had turned out to be made it all worth it.

“What do you think?” Cassian asked.

“I love it.” Jyn replied instantly, a wide grin on her face. “Thank you so much.” She turned to him, trying to ignore the look he gave her, the one that studied nearly everything about her.  Jyn hugged him without much thought. She could tell it must have been a rare occurrence from how slowly and carefully he reacted.

“Sorry.” Jyn mumbled as she pulled away, a slight blush creeping up her cheeks.

“It’s okay.” He gave a slight laugh.

For some reason it crossed her mind that his laugh was one of the most pleasant sounds she ever heard.

1 Year Later

Jyn didn’t really think of herself as rebellious, but there had been many people - her father included - who thought she was more than rebellious. She’d had a fake ID for a few years now, ever since one of her friends in high school had gotten exceptionally good at making them.

Jyn used it maybe a handful of times since she’d gotten it, but something about her nineteenth birthday made her want to go have some fun. She only had a few friends to go with her, Leia who had gotten in with a fake ID of her own and her twin brother Luke, and Han who was more than happy to buy everyone drinks so they could have a good time.

Somewhere along the night Luke wandered off talking to some girl, and Han and Leia vanished after having a fight, leaving Jyn to sit all alone at the bar and trying to drink in peace ignore the drunken men hitting on her.

“Jyn?” A familiar voice called out.

Between the loud music and the even louder people in the club, Jyn thought it was Luke finally noticing that his sister was gone and was searching for her. Instead when she turned around she was greeted with a face she hadn’t seen in a long time, one that had her surprised that he still remembered her name.

“Cassian?” Jyn asked in disbelief.

He looked different from their last meeting, some scruff had started to grow in on him to form a beard, and he was dressed up to blend in with everyone else in the crowd, though his shirt was mostly unbuttoned. She could only guess that he’d been out there dancing from the slight sheen of sweat on him, and probably drinking, too, judging by the big grin on his face. People weren’t usually that happy just to see her.

“I haven’t seen you in a while.” He smirked.

“I’ll have you know I’ve been thinking about another tattoo.” Jyn admitted.

“Good.” Cassian laughed, and something about it resonated with her and she remembered that she liked his laugh, that she wanted to hear more of it, but didn’t think she would. “But if I remember right, unless you’ve aged a couple of years in just one, I’m wondering how you got in here.”

“Are you gonna rat me out?” Jyn asked, for some reason it had come off far more promiscuous than intended, or at least she thought.

“No.” Cassian smirked and was the one to look away, and Jyn swore she saw him blush a bit, but from all the drinks she had it could have been her own mind tricking her. “But I do want to buy you a drink and just talk for a bit.”

“I’ll have you know I’ve turned down every guy tonight that’s offered me the very same thing, but I think I’ll make an exception for you.” Jyn replied.

Jyn never thought she'd end up in the backseat of Cassian Andor’s car just outside his house. Neither were able to their hands off each other long enough to get inside. She wanted to think it was just the alcohol that made her want his lips all over her, but in the back of her mind she knew that wasn't it: she just wanted him.

That wanting left her with her dress hiked up, her underwear lost somewhere in the car, and her heels digging into his sides while she screamed out his name and her hands tangled in his hair. Every muscle in her body ached after her second release in that backseat of the car, and it left her gasping for air.

Cassian pressed a few more light kisses to the inside of her thighs before pulling away with a broad grin, proud of how he'd unraveled her with just his tongue and fingers. Jyn pulled him to her lips, his kiss muddled with the taste of her, and something about it made Jyn want him all over again.

“Do you, uh, wanna come inside?” Cassian asked nervously. She found it odd for him to be so nervous after what they'd just done, but ultimately she found it endearing.

“I thought you'd never ask.” Jyn smirked.

He detangled himself from her awkwardly, though Jyn just smiled. She thought a guy like Cassian would be more confident in situations like these, but she liked his honest nature. Jyn sat herself back up and straightened out. Wordlessly, Cassian wrapped her in his coat from earlier that had been quickly cast aside.

When the two had finally got into the house, Jyn was surprised at how bare it felt inside. Yes, there was furniture and papers cast about intermixed with beautiful drawings, but there were no photos on the walls, only the occasional drawings pinned up that looked like Cassian was still working on them.

It shouldn't have been awkward when they made it to his bedroom, the most lived-in feeling place of the whole house with its painted walls, even more of his drawings, and his clothes cast about, but it was.

It had finally hit Jyn that this was all happening, that some of it already happened in the car. She wasn't sure what to do, and Cassian seemed just as nervous as she was.

“Do you want anything to drink?” Cassian asked, hoping to break the silence.

“No, I'm okay.” Jyn replied. How did all of this start, or, rather, how could it start again?

Jyn decided to make the first move this time. She shed his jacket, tossing it over one of his chairs and rose on her tiptoes to give him a kiss. He quickly wrapped his arms around her and kissed her just as hungrily as he had before. Jyn pulled away only for a moment to turn around.

“Help me get out of this thing.” She asked as his fingers made it right to her dress and swiftly got her out of it.

She instantly felt vulnerable and crossed her arms over her bare chest.

“It's okay.” Cassian assured her, pressing kisses to her neck from behind.

Jyn only turned in his arms after that, knowing she could keep herself slightly covered with his arms around her. She worked on getting him out out his own clothes as she unbuttoned his shirt and tugged at it to get it off him. Cassian smiled against her lips and assisted in getting himself undressed.

Immediately after his shirt was gone, his pants followed with Jyn’s help. He led them to the edge of his bed, though was Jyn barely tall enough to climb onto it herself. Cassian assisted her by scooping her up and setting her down on the mattress. He pulled away and just looked her right in the eyes, asking for permission to continue to which Jyn responded with a quick nod before Cassian climbed on top of her.

He started kissing her from just above her most sensitive point where he'd spent all his time before in the car, all the way up her stomach and chest, taking his time once he reached her neck to find all her sensitive spots. It didn't take him long to have her moaning again, and it didn't take Jyn long to notice the hardness pressed between her legs, kept at bay only by the fabric of his boxers.

Jyn reached to get her fingers under the waistband of his boxers, and he bucked back a bit in surprise. He watched her for a moment, their eyes locked together while Jyn’s hands roamed over him. She eventually hooked another finger under the waistband before she started tugging them down, and Cassian had to bite his lip to keep himself from reacting to her touch.

For a brief moment, Jyn felt a rush of something brave inside her chest, though it was dashed when same lustful look appeared in Cassian's own eyes. He leaned in and kissed her so slowly and gently, it somehow felt more passionate than all of their other kisses before.

     There wasn't much thought put into what happened next; both of them were too caught up in the moment over everything. There was no grand announcement or gesture or anything to signal what happened next--it just happened, much like everything else that happened that night. In a matter of minutes Jyn was sighing out his name again; his lips were on her neck while the rest of him rocked her gently into the bed.

It was almost painful how slow he kept things at first, afraid of hurting her or being too quick. Jyn couldn't really form the words to tell him this and decided to use her body to get her message across, moving herself against him to urge him on and grinning when she finally got a moan out of him.

He understood what she wanted, then and there, and responded to her every need, even those she didn't think she had, like how she desperately wanted his eyes on her when he kissed down her chest, or how she loved how the scruff of his beard felt against her neck. And when his hand ran over her tattoo, the one he'd spent hours putting on her body, something inside of her just gave out and she lost any sense of control she might have had.

“Cassian--!” Jyn managed to gasp out, egging him on even further at the sound of his name falling from her lips. “Cass, please.” She didn't know what she was really begging for until he hit just the right spot that had her keening even louder.

“Jyn.” He mumbled against her skin and that was what sent her over the edge into another climax, she was sure this was the final one she could muster up for the night.

Her body was shook like a leaf, and she was covered in a layer of sweat, but even though she felt like sleeping for the rest of the week, Cassian still hadn't gotten his own climax.

“Cassian.” Jyn mumbled out lazily, trying to keep her thrusts in time with his despite feeling drained of all energy.

He finally seemed to reach his own end: his thrusts became sporadic and jerky until he finally groaned out her name over and over again like a prayer into her skin, releasing himself inside of her with bursts of wet heat, neither of them caring in the moment.

A few moments after his final thrusts, Cassian collapsed beside her in the bed, trying to catch his breath just as she was, only he reached out and held her close even though he was burning up.

Jyn scooted up, pressing a few featherlight kisses just under his jaw before grabbing the blankets to cover their lower halves. She didn't know when she drifted off to sleep; all she knew was that she woke up with a smile the next morning at the sight of Cassian awake and beside her, just holding her and rubbing small circles into her lower back.

[caesurabywriting]

do you have a drabble or headcanon of your otp: fooling the world & each other becoming engaged? pretty please. c: i'm curious.

because you said please + i’ll take any excuse to talk about them, i’m obligated to answer this. honestly i have way too many headcanons but i’m going to try and be concise and coherent here (+ huge apologies for how long this is anyway, but these two are hella complicated and i’m way too Extra for their angst)headcanons:

- they only get engaged because she claims she’s pregnant (spoiler alert: she’s not, but she’s relying on the fact that she can get pregnant soon after/in a close enough window for it to be true) - she uses that excuse to get his attention bc he seemed to be getting more and more distant and passive re: their relationship and she wanted to have a way to lock him down even if she has to heavily manipulate the situation to get her way. she’s like a milder form of amy dunne.- she’s also the poster child for abandonment and trust issues because her parents were awful, but it’s what brought them ~together~ in the first place. his ex-gf, viv, was her best friend. they all lived together in NYC, along w tom’s own bestie, for six years ( which is what #manhattan memoirs is about ) before viv one day abruptly moved out without an explanation, dropping contact with them both, abandoning their perfect unit of four. up until that point tom and tessa barely tolerated each other + had an ongoing banter thing going on. she had a short fuse and he loved to light it at any chance he got. antagonizing her was his favorite hobby. later on, they proceeded to ‘bond’ over angry and angsty hate sex to avoid being sad over her viv’s departure. but then feelings were caught. oops. anyways…- she’s a ~first comes love, then comes marriage, then comes baby~ kind of person, and he knows this. having a baby without being married first would be a huge deal breaker for her. if he declined stepping up to ask her to marry him there would be no baby and she’d tell him to leave (in theory, but between you and me i don’t think she could and would have come up with something more dramatic to get his undying attention)- it was very non romantic and went down more like a business deal discussion. she presented a serious ultimatum that needed addressing. she sprung it on him. essentially, pre-proposing his proposal. there was no ring or down-on-one-knee business. it was very much a highly staked version of ‘should i stay or should i go?’- she went out by herself after the ‘proposal’ and chose her own ring and everything. anything he chose would have been complained about and returned- he wanted/wants to propose again in a more romantic and thoughtful way because even though he’s pretty neutral about marriage, he sees it’s important to her and she deserves the best of things. alas, time kept ticking by and it seemed like he’d lost his shot, so he kept such plans to himself and lets her resent him a little extra for his apparent lack of involvement, as usual.i do not have a full drabble composed ( yet - but i probably will one day even though it will ruin my life ), but i do have various fragmented flashback/extracts from actual replies/past threads that may or may not make sense out of context but, regardless, i’ve collected them below if you’re interested on a glimpse of things somewhat engagement-related:

1. Their tables had done more than shift, they had been flipped and spun out. The undeniable truth tightly wrapped around his reality, pinning him transfixed in place. For better or for worse, those two lines had seen Tom’s uncontrolled fishtailing hitched onto a finite track. A duo of one dimensional pink had the power to change everything. Tom blinked over dilated pupils, his sentimental conscience sucker punched by a one-two hit of remorse and disquietude. It was all still etched into him like the grooves of a record, designed to be played on repeat at his masochistic leisure — Tessa presenting herself empty handed after already discarding the evidence, bearing the news with clutched hands and a penetrating gaze. Her voice, poised and decisively urgent: ’Stay.’ They were standing in the same room for the first time in three days. He’d avoided the sheen of her dark hair for the floorboards, ‘That’s not all you’re asking.’ His timbre noticeably wavered in comparison to hers. Like a whip, Tessa’s voice cut across with a warning flatline: ‘No. It’s what we are.’ Her eyes, calculating, soften magnanimously the moment he looks up, ‘You know your answer, don’t you, Thomas?’ 2. Her reveal had been a surprise. Admittedly, he was the only one to blame for that belief, his sense of awareness not particularly careful nor attentive during the time between an office shift ending and them falling from a fight into a bed together. In all it’s ‘A one time thing. We’re not doing this again,’ ( gradually switched out for ‘make it a one more time thing,’ ) glory. What had only ever been meant to be a secondary arrangement, intended to fill space, to pass time. The most beneficial way to end a combative argument. It was an exhausting interlude that matched the tone of his routine, wearing him down until he was nothing but fine grains. He had been confused, torn, and collectable.3. No celebratory graduation ceremony marked their progression as they impassively watched their shared temperature rise from ‘fling’ to ‘fiancé’, endlessly fluctuating between offensively heated and dishearteningly tepid throughout. Their anniversaries as somber as the sticker announcing it on the square of calendar. That catalyzing moment of history turned away from very deliberately. There were no sweet heart-eyed how did you two meet narratives to supply. Just Mr. Type-B and Ms. Type-A, two heartbroken kids susceptible to distraction. Amusing themselves until it became real. Maybe it did. Or maybe it was harmless and it was pure paranoia making it seem like a neon sign blinked above his head in an infinite line of alarmed exclamation marks.4. Wreckage was imminent no matter which way the pieces aligned. Home ( now ) was sleeplessly staring at a ceiling, deliberating in the dark and into the glow of the morning. Most of all, an internal pleading line of looped thought: Oh, God, let today be a normal day. Let him be normally nervous, unhesitating, and spontaneously happy. Let him not squint as Tessa walked away, the disheveled shadow of dark hair thrown down her back strongly evoking of another’s in poor lighting. Familiar shades of umber and taupe clashing with the lesser known notes of sangria and mint on her breath, the scent of rose in her hair. Tessa, an intended sojourn; a breathing space. An operating lightbulb to illuminate the dreary darkness of a vicissitude neither wanted to admit they were blind in trying to navigate. No one was ever prepared for a demotion into the limited edition status of another’s life when, viewed in the other direction, they’d presumably been branded essential. But it had happened, and Tessa was the only tangible reason not to go too far off an precipice that led to no tomorrow. Pulling at hands smudged with paint instead of cigarette ash in a desperate attempt at capsizing the insurmountable detritus of past imprints drifting throughout his system. Taking the brunt of all frustration, tremor, and every emotion banned from expression. Aggressively sidelining the only language he wanted to feel, touch, and listen to. Relearning a different one. Everything that had been absentminded and easy now requiring vigilance and humorless behavior. Yet as exhausting as all her short tempered glares and cavilling was, it had also been her strict accountability and interception between him and acts of stupidity that kept him together.5. She was a person to whom his surrendering murmur of ‘I love you’ often had the bitter aftertaste of something over-steeped. His palliative precursor, a promising commitment not to be cowardly, invitingly interchangeable with other prosperous phrases of three: I am here. I am staying. We are family. The woman who’d engaged in an unrequested initiative, yanking the dusty rug out from beneath their at-risk stale situation and pulling them into dazzling sunlight. He couldn’t have said no if he’d wanted to. He was prepared to try — faking it until it was true — just as he shouldered everything else. Maybe saying yes to Tessa, and in turn something that scared him, had been the gateway drug.6. There were many shouldn’t-ridden clauses, both spoken and not, between the two of them. Tessa and Thomas. One of the very first in-depth conversations they’d had ended with a shouldn’t. The first time he hadn’t felt the need to crack a prolonged, tensely held, silence with something deprecating. Instead, tentatively entering the humid air, a plea and a concern all in one: We shouldn’t do this, it’s too soon. Then, only two days later: we shouldn’t stop, I can’t do this alone. And the rest fell into natural order, the reoccurring theme of expectations fallen short: He shouldn’t come home so late. She shouldn’t have to ask twice. We shouldn’t talk about that. The clarity of her voice in his head was almost identical to a certain other someone’s. A different inflection, a different time — but just the same; a damning memory able to be plucked from the recesses of his mind at the most inconvenient of moments. Tessa’s censorious commentary was never far behind. He’d been consumed by it in slowly advancing increments for nearly ten years. In the beginning, a day-to-day routine of merely pretending he was listening to her as he dotingly observed the accompanying figure that she’d arrived with. More recently, her unimpressed narration wove through the fabric of any of the romantic or couple-y things they tried to do. Tom, begrudgingly following her into the overcrowded abyss of whatever public outing she’d pre-arranged, always far too absentminded, staying alert for all the wrong reasons. Looking down to check on even the slightest vibration of his phone — a problem? A meeting? A respite? — whilst completely avoiding having to provide any input on Tessa’s newly favorite subject ( it rhymed with bedding ). Their verbal tennis matches, a ceaseless tit-for-tat game of passive aggression, could run steady laps around everything else they did. It was almost an entity of it’s own. There was Tom, there was Tessa, and there was that low pressure that hung in the atmosphere whenever they entered into the same room as if someone had made tasteless a joke at a funeral. The one beam of hope through it all was the fact that, admitted to or not, they knew each other too well. Despite what they withheld from one another — even though, if presented the same card drawn during a Rorschach Test she’d see the shape of a book where he’d see a pint of beer — they could never return to being strangers. Getting to know her had been a muffled process, a slowly sinking feeling. The diluting of a strongly flavored concentrate with hot water. Three parts scathing to one part cordial. Mild enough to eventually be widely palatable as opposed to the too-potent original double dose; the sort of thing that appealed to rush-seeking junkies and hyperactive children and those who fell somewhere in between.

[thesketchiestone]

The Woes of the Zombie Man

Chapter I

During which the reader becomes acquainted with Boris and his beloved buddy Bugger

Due to the abundance and the enormity of the festering boils that had plagued him his whole life, Boris Buford had long been the butt of many jokes and the source of many nightmares. Thanks to a rare and, as far as he knew, incurable skin disease, the entirety of his body was covered with grotesque pocks that closely resembled the open wounds of a bullet-riddled carcass of any kind. Outbreaks of red and green cysts stood out against the pale casing his body was wrapped in. His oozy limbs constantly swelled with pus and caused him no small amount of discomfort. The terrible ailment had bothered him to the point of anguish in his youth, and at an early age he had become fearful of his peers and the ridicule they produced, so he had learned to keep to himself in an effort to avoid scaring people or hearing newly invented nicknames for himself or any one of the thousand other unwanted annoyances he knew all too well that came with participating in society. Conditioned to be distant, he decided not to bother people with his gruesome presence. Becoming a homeless recluse, he chose to suffer alone, thereby suffering a little bit less. Boris was fully aware of how unappealing his visage was to others, and although it saddened him to admit it, he found his own reflection rather frightening and had made a habit of avoiding mirrors. Folks around town knew him as the Zombie Man, which only added to his already insurmountable grief. Needless to say, he was somewhat of an ugly duckling.

Bleak Boris Buford was born and bred beside Biloxi in Boonesville, a small municipality slightly less populated than you’re imagining it to be, and he had never once stepped even a single foot outside the county line. He existed mainly in the shadows of alleyways to keep himself from being seen by others, though sightings of him were reported from time to time, and were always thoroughly discussed. The misfortune of the Zombie Man was well known throughout his hometown and was frequently talked about. Boris became something of a myth and rumors spread viciously, adding to his macabre mystique.

His mother and father had abandoned him when he was still a child, because – and this cannot be stressed enough – he was as nauseating as is visually possible. Even at such a young age he was offensively taxing on the eyes. One day his parents had had enough, so they up and threw him away. In a garbage bin. Mr. and Mrs. Buford shed many tears at having deserted their only child; not from the guilt, but out of self-pity. Though his parents were right in thinking he was an awful excuse for a baby boy, they later admitted that perhaps they could have handled the situation with more tact. Nevertheless, Boris somehow survived and grew up to be an amazingly unattractive young man, and an even uglier adult.

His only friend in the world was Bugger, a sickly flea-ridden mutt with a terrible case of mange. Boris had bonded deeply with the hideous dog, and he cherished the animal’s friendship more than anything. Constantly praising the loyalty of his companion, he would embrace and pet the gross beast day and night. Caressing his pal was often quite painful, as both creatures usually had ulcers leaking from head to toe, but that had never stopped them from expressing the camaraderie they held so dear. They were inseparably close, both at heart and in physical proximity, at all times. The appalling exterior of the two monstrosities did not agree with the beautiful love they shared, as Boris and Bugger both possessed kind and gentle souls, but to see the two of them together was such a horrific sight even the most righteous nun in the world would have found it difficult to show them any generosity.

Having so little to do with his fellow man, Boris was between jobs, and had never been employed at all for that matter. Living so many years without money had made him resourceful. Painstakingly, through countless woeful tribulations, he had grown accustomed to dumpster diving in order to provide for himself and his amigo. In fact, the duo had first met while excavating a trash can behind a diner, and it was then they had shared their first meal of foul fowl parts. Rummaging through the waste supplied them with anything and everything their hearts desired, as long as their hearts desired discarded junk and rotting leftovers, which had never been the case. Still, ransacking trash receptacles sustained them. Occasionally, on certain nights as infrequent as they were exciting, when another mouthful of garbage scraps could not be stomached, Boris would steal. It was on a night such as this that he set his sights on Gitcha Goods, a corner store, and it is here we will join the pair of vagrants as they prepared for the famous caper during an instance that will be recounted now.

Chapter II

In which the baffling buffoonery of the Boonesvillian banditos begins

Hiding in an alley across the street from Gitcha Goods, peeking around the corner, crouching in the darkness, and generally exhibiting shifty behavior in a number of ways, Boris turned to his mangy counterpart, licked his lips, and said:

“We’re gon’ be eatin’ good tonight, boy.”

Bugger weakly wagged his limp tail in agreement. The diseased dog knew what delicacies he could soon expect, as he was familiar with Boris’s mannerisms, and all signs pointed towards good eatin’.

Boris was all business; he had consumed so much spoiled grub lately, and fresh meals were so few are far between, any opportunity to swipe a proper feast was no laughing matter. Concealing himself in the adjacent alley, he focused his unblinking gaze through the glass door of Gitcha Goods on the store clerk, an extremely sloppily dressed young girl.

She was unaware of the attention being given to her as she sat behind the counter bored and high out of her mind. She was new to town, and in order to compensate for her lack of friends she had continued her daily doing of drugs and downing of drinks to depress her depression. She had not yet heard of the Zombie Man, and as anyone who was familiar could relate, a person seeing him for the first time was guaranteed to be taken aback, especially with the bonus of Bugger, who was equally as shocking. The store clerk sat behind the counter breathing through an open mouth, alone in the building, staring dumbly at nothing in silence.

As Boris waited for her to get off work and leave him to his thievery he did not look away from the corner store that housed his future dinner.

“Ya know what, Bugger boy,” Boris said to his only pal, “I bet they got jerky in there. I know you’d love some jerky, wouldn’t ya, boy?”

Bugger responded with a string of drool and a whimper so wimpish it would have broken the heart of anyone who had heard it, as long as they had not seen the source of the sound, in which case they would have felt nothing but repugnance, because, as has already been stated, Bugger was hideous beyond belief, and was repulsing to all who were unlucky enough to lay eyes on him. It was true though, that Bugger loved jerky. Boris knew this and hoped desperately the corner store had some available, because he loved the dog more than he loved himself, and wanted only good things for his compadre. He was determined to provide, but he did not yet know how he would break in and acquire the nourishment. All he knew was that night he and Bugger would be doing some good eatin’.

Boris hid in the alley, staring at the clerk intently, biding his time until the store was unattended. Picturing all the deliciousness he would have in his clutches and gullet before long, he was jittery, delirious with desire, manic with anticipation.

Bugger, stricken with hunger and fantasizing about tasty treats, sat still in suspense, looking forward to whatever morsels their plunderous activities might bring. The two skeletal delinquents remained hidden and frozen in this manner for over an hour, awaiting their supper with mouths watering, transfixed by the neon sign that read “Gitcha Goods.”

Boris was curious as to why the clerk did not leave when her shift ended; he knew the store’s hours of operation well, and had observed and recorded her departure for several nights. It was well past three o’clock in the morning, which, according to his calculations, was after closing time. She should have left. There was no logical reason for her to still be holding her post, which made Boris worry she was on to him. She appeared to be facing the alley he and Bugger were hiding in, and he suddenly found it plausible, if not probable, that she had been watching him for quite a while. Contrary to his fears, the inebriated store clerk had fallen asleep with her head propped up in her hands, her elbows on top of the counter in a pool of drool.

Agitated by the enemy’s strategic maneuver, Boris turned to his ailing ally in the alley and hissed, “How does she know? Bitch is tryin’ to foil our plot, boy.”

Nervous and hungry as hell, Boris could not imagine shoveling through another dumpster for something to eat. He did not care if his mission had been compromised; he had to follow through with his plan, even though it had yet to be formulated. Distressed to the point of madness, he decided what he was going to do then and there.

“We’re fuckin’ doing this, boy,” Boris exclaimed to his starving cohort, “I don’t give a shit anymore. Tonight’s the night we’re gonna eat good. Let’s just fucking do it!”

He then charged Gitcha Goods with complete disregard to stealth and sensibility.

At this point it is necessary to remind you, dear reader, just how horrendous and upsetting a spectacle Boris was; his hide a hot bed harvesting pimply pocks packed with pus, bloody boils as big as blueberries, and gross growths galore; and Bugger, the corpse-like canine, in the same miserable condition, not a pinch more pleasing to perceive. There was not a man alive whose stomach would not churn at the sight of them.

The two miscreants crashed into the glass door and entered the store. The clerk awoke, astonished and dumbstruck. The violent variation of vodka and Vicodin that voyaged through her veins with vigor, in addition to the marathon of The Walking Dead she had been watching for two days straight and the gruesome appearance of the two figures in the doorway, assured her civilization had fallen and the apocalypse had begun.

Ducking behind the counter without a peep, her eyes began to scan her immediate surroundings for a weapon. Finding only a mechanical pencil and a stapler, she grabbed the office supplies; pencil in the right hand, stapler in the left. She breathed as inaudibly as she could, hunkering down and not moving a muscle.

Paying no attention to anything other than filling his face with food and forgetting his famishment, Boris dropped to his knees and began to gorge, ferociously ripping cookies and coffee cakes out of their wrappers with an enthusiasm never before seen for such cheap snacks. Bugger found a shrine of assorted jerkies and joined in on the festivities, viciously attacking a box of teriyaki flavored beef sticks. The disgusting duo continued insatiably devouring everything they could, giving not a single thought to the Gitcha Goods employee in the same room.

Hiding behind the counter at the front of the store, the clerk was terrified. She had never heard of zombies eating prepackaged goods, or of zombie dogs, but she was no expert on the subject. The abruptness of the situation hadn’t allowed her to think rationally, and her intoxication didn’t make her any more reasonable.

The furious feasting, during which Boris and Bugger ate much more than they had in the previous three weeks combined, lasted only around fifteen minutes. Exhausted and stuffed, they lay on the tile floor and moaned in satisfaction. On their backs, side by side, in sedentary bliss, they let the fluorescent light bathe them. The clerk, taking notice of how slothful the monsters had become and seeing their pause in activity as advantageous, opted to strike before it was too late.

Knowing what had to be done, she leapt from her cover, let out a deafening war cry, rushed the zombie of human physiology, drove a flurry of staples into his skull, and stabbed the mechanical pencil into its head and neck repeatedly.

Going from total ecstasy to fearing his death in the blink of an eye, Boris was bewildered by the barrage. He pushed the assailant off of him, stood up, and tried to run towards the door, but because he was so full, he moved at a pace better described as a lumber. The store clerk, still stoned, staunchly stabbed and stapled with strengthening strikes as Boris fled. Bugger saw how badly his friend was being treated, tapped into his guard dog instincts, slowly got up, and waddled his way over to the commotion in order to give some assistance. Once he finally reached the quarrel, the clerk saw him, shrieked, and kicked the undead dog with all of her might, breaking a few of his ribs. When the dog fell down she stabbed and stapled it a few times for good measure before hiding behind the counter again and feverishly reciting a prayer. The two friends retreated in a panic, wailing in excruciation. They exited the glass door and didn’t look back. The clerk locked the door right away. Her heart was racing as she thanked the heavens she was still alive. She tried to calm down and catch her breath as she picked up the store’s phone, called the police, and earnestly reported a zombie attack.

Boris and Bugger rendezvoused in the alley across the street from Gitcha Goods and collapsed pitifully.

“Oh, man. She fucked you up,” blurted Boris as he brushed Bugger’s beaten back. “Got you good, didn’t she, boy?  Tramp got me too. Unnecessary if you ask me. I saw you going to town on some jerky, though. That’s good. At least we got you that.”

Boris smiled faintly as the staple wounds in his head steadily trickled blood. Being almost certain he had gone blind in his left eye thanks to the stabbings from the pencil, he felt as if he might faint, puke, or die. Bruised and battered and licking their wounds, our heroes huddled together, dreading the damned dumpster diving they would undoubtedly do the next day, wondering if they would ever eat that good again.

Chapter III

Which tells of a time Boris and Bugger experienced a bout of “food” poisoning

For many days they reminisced on the good eatin’ they had done and been punished severely for, wondering if they would ever again enjoy such luxuries. They would, of course, just not for some time. Quite a while, really. After a spell of dreadful hunger they found themselves devastatingly starving for a bit. Suffering from such a perilous case of the munchies for so long left them both weak and utterly hopeless. Succumbing to extreme caloric deficit, they had begun unenthusiastically scouring dumpsters. After chewing on something he mistook to be edible, Boris, on the verge of tears, fell to the pavement and screamed:

“We can’t live like this, boy!”

He groaned for a few seconds, wailed for a few more still, and carried on with a series of unintelligible, depressing noises.  Soon actual words escaped from his mouth, and he whiningly said, “There’s nothing any good for us in these damn dumpsters. It’s all trash. All of it! Why don’t people ever toss out a pizza or two?”

He then threw up his hands in incredulity.

“Are you trying to tell me nobody ever has too many quesadillas? I call bullshit! There’s gotta be at least a couple little pieces of prime rib somebody could do without and just place real nicely in this here dumpster. I know it. But no! Nothing. I don’t know about you, boy, but I can’t do it. I just can’t! If somebody doesn’t throw away a rotisserie chicken or somethin’ like it real soon, I don’t know what I’m gonna do.”

His anger dissipating, he paused and became calm. Looking down and shaking his head, he picked at his fingernails and said, “Maybe I’m just putting on airs. Maybe this is the way it’s gotta be. We’ve had it worse than this before, I know. But how much can we take, boy? I guess we just been pampered by all those fancy snacks. Thought we was rich folk, didn’t we, boy? Well, we ain’t. Maybe we deserve this. Maybe we’s spose’ta live like this. Are you even listenin’ to me?”

Bugger, whose nose had grown an itchy fungus of sorts, continued licking a rash on one of his mangy hind legs, paying little attention to the long-winded spew of complaints being directed at him.

Boris grumbled for a while longer about his lack of nachos and similar subjects, then the moderately one-sided discussion came to an end. Night passed, and the two friends woke up hungrier than usual. Joints cracking as he rose from his concrete bed, Boris rubbed his knobby knees and noticed how strangely gaunt he had become. Looking down at his legs, he saw two misshapen, spindly poles, like laminated twigs. An emaciated boogeyman, he was thinner than most supermodels and inversely as arousing, aesthetically speaking. Bugger looked to have drastically dropped a few pounds as well. The mutt’s belly discovered itself to be shockingly close to the underside of his spine, and his ribs, both broken and not, jutted out at disturbing angles, stretching his deplorable skin. Boris saw the sad state his friend was in and pitied him. Even though he was no better off, he placed Bugger’s wellbeing before his own, if only by a smidgen. He had to help.

Finding a new sense of purpose, with a surge of determination, Boris decided he was going to find a way, somehow, for them to do some good eatin’ yet again. At that or any other moment a storm of brilliant ideas did not overflow or even trickle into his mind. His thoughts were few. Not knowing what else to do, he began foraging in every dumpster he knew of, searching garbage cans large and small, until he finally scrounged up a brownish, questionable substance they might could eat. Very questionable indeed. It was meat, Boris thought. Or an old salad, perhaps. A poorly executed quiche? It very well could’ve been something other than food, but Boris was optimistic. He gestured to Bugger to smell it. Bugger did so, but was unsure as to how he felt about it. They looked at it. They looked at each other, then looked back at the possibly food in unison, looked one more time into each other’s hungry eyes, and pounced on it.

Whatever it was was gone within seconds.

Boris got up off of his knees and brushed himself off. Bugger tried wagging his tail, but it didn’t feel right. Embarrassed and regretful, they avoided making eye contact as they walked to where their home wasn’t. After taking less than ten steps, Boris felt a tingling sensation in his stomach he knew meant nothing good. He looked down at Bugger, who was dry heaving violently, and braced himself as the tingling quickly grew into a rolling wave of sickness wrenching his gut. Bugger had already begun to spasm wildly, defenseless against the throes that were throwing him about. Overtaken by convulsions, abdomens seized and knotted, the unfortunate pair clutched at the ground and scrambled, as if trying to leave the pain behind. Their howls and screams of agony soon dwindled into soft cries and before long all was silent. Whatever the stuff had been it had really given their innards a good thrashing. Boris was as sick as a dog; the one trembling next to him in particular. After five hours of lying in the hot sun and allowing it to dry out their oft-wet open sores, they still didn’t feel well at all. Both of them lay on the concrete until nightfall, looking especially cadaverous, with their insides in ruins. It just goes to show the misstep it can be to chow down on a mysterious blob of unidentified stuff – specifically if the mysterious blob of unidentified stuff being chowed down upon is a few heavily deteriorated washcloths tangled together.

Chapter IV

Regarding our heroes stay in the little shack

Months passed but the washcloths never did.

As the sky warped from a drizzling gray to a sunny blue, it was unaware of how desperate the dumpster diving duo beneath it had become. It had been a tough few days for the two rejects and things weren’t looking up. After dining on a plentitude of assorted condiment packets, Boris and Bugger were less than satisfied, but not for long. When they had almost surrendered their hope and quit their search empty-handed, they stumbled upon a good deal of raw dough that had semi-baked in a sun-scorched aluminum garbage can and really turned out to be quite palatable. Having some packets left over, Boris spread relish on the bread he relished as he fed.

Feeling full and finding the future less foreboding than they customarily found it, Boris and Bugger took a walk. A long one, out of town, following a path towards the trees, with no destination and no worries. They felt the breeze and the sunlight on their faces as Boonesville faded from view behind them, its alienating judgments seeping away with it. They looked up at the clouds and the lack thereof. Bugger ran around chasing nothing while Boris chased him. Tall grass tickled their scabby legs as they ran through it, laughing. Making his way back to the path, Boris watched the blue sky melt into orange, appreciating the tranquility. Thinking he’d rather taken a liking to the act of breathing, Boris’s disgustingly chapped lips were almost tempted to smile. He thought he might have been feeling happy, but he had nothing to use for reference. Without disturbing the calm, Boris and Bugger followed the path quietly, keeping their eyes to the front, and in no time they saw themselves nearing the trees.

Passing into the woods, the path threaded through the thick, living columns. Leafy branches rattled and shook around them as they took it in. Shadows jumped forward and retreated back again as the sun broke through the trees’ extremities. The woody, waving fingers of the forest welcomed Boris and Bugger in as the breeze blew by, making them feel as at home there as they did anywhere, for reasons that should be evident. They walked respectfully among the commotion, mesmerized by the motioning greenery, captivated by it all.

Still following the weaving path into a sparsely wooded area, the trees dissolved and they entered a clearing. They saw in front of them, not far off, a little shack. It stood alone, encircled by the forest. The front door was open, creaking back and forth in the wind. Exploring his curiosity, Boris approached it slowly. The closer he got to the place the emptier it seemed.

Advancing from the side, they reached the building and crept around to the front. Boris stopped and put his ear to a window, keeping himself from view. He heard nothing but the creaking door. Guessing it safe, they poked their heads in through the open doorway, with their bodies waiting outside for the time being as they scanned the small, one-room domicile. If outwardly it had appeared to be abandoned, inwardly it appeared even more so. Stepping in all the way, they took a leisurely look around the place, and after discovering a stash of canned foods in a drawer, they instantly took a liking to it, and didn’t plan on leaving it unattended for the foreseeable future, deciding that squatting was the proper thing to do in such an establishment.

Boris finally got his hands on an elusive can opener, and life was good. Living as lavish as lords, they enjoyed home-style beans, chili, and tuna. The whole nine. With each mouthful their spirits soared higher. In a dreamlike stupor, they pigged out nonstop, force feeding their haggard frames, nodding off into inevitable food-comas, waking from one dream and falling into another. They kept this up for what felt like an eternity. Then the seemingly never-ending supply of food ran out. It had only been three days.

Chapter V

During which Boris is interrupted by and retaliates against libelers

Pot smoke swam between the brick walls of the alley as the wind played with it, possibly a little high itself. A rickety, lousily rolled blunt was passed from one misfit to another as a fit of coughing echoed between the walls. Seeing as hip hop and existentialism had already been thoroughly discussed, there seemed to be nothing left to talk about, when one of the grungy young men broke the silence and said, “I haven’t seen the Zombie Man in a minute, man. I wonder what that frickin’ sicko’s been up to. Probably some sick shit, I tell you that.”

“Oh, for sure,” replied the infinitesimally grungier of the two, “I bet he’s doing somethin’ super sick right now. Like voodoo wizardry or terrorizin’ the elderly or somethin’. Dude scares me, man.”

“I feel you. Just seeing him scares me. He’s for sure the sickest lookin’ dude I ever saw. I mean, you know I watch some nasty ass shit online, but I’ve never seen anything as sick as him. And I’ve tried. But he takes the top spot, man, no doubt. Dude, just thinkin’ about him makes my stomach feel, like, sick, you know?”

“Oh yeah. I know exactly what you’re gittin’ at, dude. That creepy fucker makes me wanna blow chunks real bad. This might sound stupid ‘n’ shit, but like, he’s not a real zombie, right? ‘Cause he’s like, monster status, bro.”

The blunt was passed. Coughing commenced and was quickly concluded, and the enlightening conversation continued.

“No, he’s probably not the legit real deal, but that’s a good point, man. I heard from my boy he ate his own family but the cops are too scared to go after him. I don’t know if it’s true, but you never know. I wouldn’t even blame the Federales, ‘cause that guy is, like, not fun to look at.”

Thoughtful nods were shared.

“True, true. The Zombie Man is an ugly dude, that’s for sure. Maybe even the ugliest dude in the world. I mean, think about it. Do you really think there could possibly be someone even…”

Out of sight but within earshot, digging around inside of a dumpster, Boris tired of listening to such verbal abuse being spouted so incompetently about him. He stopped looking for grub, climbed out unnoticed, and walked away till he heard no more.

The Zombie Man.

He couldn’t remember a time before that awful moniker. I wonder how long I’ve been living like this, Boris thought to himself. This line of thinking brought him to guess at how much time had sneakily crawled past him since his birth, the date of which he had long forgotten. He knew he wasn’t old yet, at least, he didn’t think it was so, but he didn’t feel young either. He caught a glimpse of himself as he passed a window. Approaching the cracked pane of glass to better study the face it framed, his already shrinking enthusiasm for living further depleted. To his own eyes he looked to have aged about fifty years postmortem, give or take a few dozen. It hadn’t been long enough since he’d last seen his wretched reflection, and judging by what he saw looking back at him, he was genuinely surprised he wasn’t an evil bastard. He definitely wasn’t the staunchest anti-immoralist, but he felt he was on the righter side of the ethical divide. He attempted to throw himself a good-natured smirk, landed on a scowl, and looked away, disheartened. Part of the problem was this: his skin, droopy and tight simultaneously, caused his features to appear unfathomably uncertain as to whether they were trying to convey their owner to be ecstatic or in mourning. Given one could look past the soul-tormenting morbidity of his detrimental skin condition, which one certainly could not, to determine exactly what he was feeling was a formidable task. Even when sleeping he looked like he might be smiling maniacally or bawling uncontrollably.

He didn’t know why people bothered coming up with all the slanderous stories about him, but he had heard some good ones.

“I never did nothin’ to nobody. Talkin’ about me all nasty. They must know somethin’ I don’t. No good sons’a’bitches!”

Feeling downtrodden with his hands in his pockets, kicking at the gravel, he stopped and thought a new, delightful thought: Maybe I can do something to make their perceptions less false. This thought brought to his face a devilish grin and he said:

“I’ll show those punks a Zombie Man. C’mon over here Bugger. We got some scarin’ to do.”

Creeping up from behind the grungy burnouts, one of whom was displaying his expertise on blunt rolling and giving the other a few pointers after some heavy criticism, Boris and Bugger were careful, keeping their movements slow, low, and quiet. Hidden around a corner, about fifteen feet away from his prey, Boris halted and listened.

“Dude, I don’t think Clinton even got a blowie. It was all just a cover-up so Obama could steal the oil. Have you even seen Zeitgeist?”

Boris was relieved that they were no longer talking about him, but the fact remained: they had to pay for their insolence.

Boris took a deep breath and walked into the alley with Bugger at his side. The two boys carried on with their conversation, not noticing the newcomers. To get their attention, Boris, who did not have much experience deliberately scaring people, coughed politely into his fist. The boys stopped talking, turned around, and looked at the intruding buzzkills, dumbfounded. Boris looked right back at them, slightly confused about what he should do next. After ten silent, awkward seconds, Boris recalled his enemies’ insolence and their having to pay for it, so he shook his arms in the air and ran at them yelling, “Boogaboogabooga!”

The two boys were flabbergasted. They cried out in fright as they fled. As Boris closed in on them, still waving his arms above his head and yelling what he thought to be scary noises, one of the boys fell and curled up into a ball, giving up completely. Boris let the other boy go free and stood there with his hands on his hips, towering over the pathetic bundle of fear quivering beneath him. He felt powerful. Bugger stood beside him, exposing his teeth and growling at the scaredy-cat. Totally in control, with his hate for those who had shown him hate fueling his decisions, Boris pointed at the young man and yelled:

“Sick him, boy!”

When Bugger lunged at the shrieking young man cowering on the ground, the other stoner blindsided the dog with a powerful kick to the body, re-breaking all of his previously broken ribs and breaking for the first time a few more. Without knowing what to do next, Bugger played dead and wished he was. Panicking and sensing his grip on authority slipping, Boris tried to grab the attacker to prevent another kick from being landed on his incapacitated compadre, but he was promptly dealt a devastating haymaker to the chin, sending him to the ground in a bloody heap.

“Nasty, bro! I got his juices on my hand! Sick!”

As the assailant frantically tried to wipe blood and pus from his hand, half afraid he might turn, his fallen friend stood up with regained moxie and stomped on Boris’s and Bugger’s legs a good many times, crunching and grinding their grisly tendons into mush, to ensure they stayed down. And down they stayed.

“I think they’re dead, man. What the fuck?!”

“The Zombie Man never stays dead, dude! His hellhound don’t neither! We gotta go before they resurrect and eat us or some shit!”

The petrified potheads then dashed off at a full sprint covering about a hundred yards, at which point they stopped to wheeze violently, smoke a quick joint, and discuss Jay-Z’s involvement in 9/11.

Crippled and defeated, using only his arms, Boris sluggishly crawled towards Bugger, who was also crippled and defeated. Boris rested his head beside his friend’s on the cold ground. In this fashion he ruminated peacefully on the evening’s happenings, hurting badly.

Chapter VI

In which Boris begs the Butcher

The Butcher smiled. Within the dank recess of his meat emporium’s killing room, pacing on a blood-stained and soon to be blood-soaked floor, he cradled a fully grown pig in his gargantuan arms as he stared deep into its eyes and whispered to it in sweet, nonsensical baby talk. He sang to it the same lullaby he always sang in these situations, and it sounded as good as it never did. The pig oinked softly, happily dreaming and then happily not, lulling in and out of consciousness. The Butcher kissed the beast wetly on the snout, then forcibly shoved a substantial hand into the thing’s mouth, his arm following it in well past the elbow. The muscles of his forearm danced inside the animal’s throat as his fingers searched blindly for its heart, which they soon found, removed, and tossed still beating into the fryer before being licked clean each individually by a bearded mouth and thrust into the pig once more, hunting for something else. They weren’t sure what yet. Whatever they found would most likely be used in some capacity, seeing as the Butcher wasn’t much one to waste.

He didn’t believe in paying another man to do a job he could easily do himself and he definitely didn’t want anyone under the impression that he was just a meat middleman. Hell no. He was equal parts slaughterer and salesman, and his killing room was where the meat he sold was harvested. He had brought doom to many a species of beast in that room. Pigs. Chickens. Rabbits. Possums. Deer. Cows. He had once slayed a bucking bronco with a sledgehammer just to see what it would taste like fried. This death-loving, angry-browed, foul-smelling behemoth of a man who never wore a shirt not covered in blood stains was the sole owner and operator of A Meat Shop, his aptly named place of business.

The sun had barely risen and Boris was already having a bad day, as was the norm. Dumpster diving halfheartedly, he was having trouble committing himself wholly to his craft. Perusing particularly putrid perishables peeved him as he peered across the parking lot at a portly person publicly punishing a pan-fried pork chop on a patio. He or she looks well-fed, Boris reflected as he wasn’t. Boris gazed on as the pork-chop was greedily wolfed down. He had never eaten a cut of meat like that before, but if he had, he imagined it would have been an agreeable occurrence. As he enviously watched the globular guy or girl put away the platter with gusto, Boris slid into a meat-induced hunger trance. Visions of succulent steaks swirled in his mind, occupying his full attention. His eyes stopped focusing on actuality as deeply realistic daydreams of pot roast brought to his nose pungent smells he had never known but somehow loved. Vividly hallucinating, he stood there smiling and moaning with an almost sexual desire, starry-eyed, salivating, craving tender meats.

A car horn sliced through the air and Boris’s regrettable reality thudded back into place. His senses adjusted to his surroundings. Dizzily finding himself inside a dumpster, he let go of the garbage that was clenched in his hands. Wading waist deep in waste, a wave of want washed over his being. He needed to get his hands on a nice steak.

Discontinuing his dig in the filth, Boris jumped out of the dumpster with a calling. He briskly walked around the corner where Bugger was taking a nap in the shade. Bending down and petting the dog’s hairless, lumpy back, he pictured the two of them sharing a filet. He would find a way to make it happen. Walking off a ways so Bugger could sleep, Boris looked up into the sky and contemplated praying, but decided against it. It had never helped him before. Resolute in his aim but unsure how to proceed, he looked down and saw between his feet a twenty dollar bill. He picked it up and looked at the crumpled, rectangular piece of fabric in awe. He held in his hands more money than he had ever seen. He thought of the things he could do with it. He could buy something. Or he could make a purchase. Both ideas were alien. His body jolted as he was struck with a sudden revelation. He could buy meats.

Within the red brick walls of A Meat Shop, the Butcher was busy strangling a lamb to death with his bare hands. Outside of them, just across the street, Boris was cozily concealed inside a trashcan, examining the slaughterhouse through the slit under the can’s lid. He was apprehensive; he had encountered the Butcher before. Once, in his younger, braver days, Boris had gotten caught fishing for scraps in the dumpster behind A Meat Shop and been bludgeoned badly by a buffalo femur. Since then he had kept his distance. He knew he should continue to do so, but he was hungrier than he was scared of the Butcher. And he was terrified of the Butcher.

Observing the scene from his tasteless hideout, Boris used every brain cell he had on his person trying to think of a course of action in which he would accomplish his goal and not get pulverized in the process, but he came up with nothing. He knew only one thing: he couldn’t enter A Meat Shop looking the way he did. The Butcher would surely recognize and probably attack him, which could prove fatal. Boris also took into consideration the general sense of panic his being seen in public would without a doubt give rise to. The acceptability of his appearance was at the lowest trough yet in its wavelength, which was really more of a downward slope seeing as it had never experienced an upswing and was relatively steady in its descent. Every square inch of him was either blistered, scarred, gangrenous, greenish, warty, chapped, or blemished in some other way. In any case, all of him was thoroughly yucky. To squirm is the correctest, elective, selectable action permissible in reaction to his septic epidermis. Boris was confident that anyone who saw him enter the place would be responsible enough to call the police or the health inspector.

A light bulb flashed brilliantly in his head before blinking on and off a few times and burning out, but Boris decided to go with it anyway. He did not know very much about his target, but he did know very little. Boris had heard somewhere that the Butcher was a bit of a racist. This, coupled with the need to keep his own identity a secret, was the basis for his plan. With some reluctance, he slithered clumsily out of the trashcan and went off to gather the necessary materials. After half a day of dumpster diving, he discovered and donned a dirty, previously-white bed sheet he hoped would resemble a Ku Klux Klan uniform. And with that his plan was in action.

Wearing the unfashionable getup, he walked into A Meat Shop with his newly found money held high and declared:

“I’ll take twenty dollars of meat, please.”

But the Butcher, who was a surprisingly despicable man in terms of his personal views on civil rights and would have been proud to feed a fellow advocate of Klankraft at no charge, refused to serve him on grounds of confusion.

“No deal.”

In the Butcher’s defense, the bed sheet was very dirty and tattered and made a poor costume. It didn’t even come to a point atop Boris’s head. Hardly any blacks would have found it offensive.

The Butcher grumbled in a low, gravelly voice, “Just what in the hell are you supposed to be?”

“Well, actually, I–”

“Scratch that. I don’t wanna know. Just get out my shop, maggot.”

“Please, sir. All I ask of you is twenty dollars of meat.”

Boris extended the twenty into the air with both arms as a sign of good faith. Even his hands were covered by cloth as he held the cash. The only part of him that could be seen under the bed sheet were his beady, desperate eyes through two ripped holes.

Visibly annoyed, the Butcher flexed the arms he had crossed in front of his massive chest as he stared disdainfully at the disheveled crackpot who was waving money around and making odd requests. In his unique choice of apparel, the vagrant looked like a ghost without a house to haunt. The Phantom Hobo. The Butcher didn’t have time for this. He had a rambunctious pack of wolves in his killing room and he was anxious to try out his new broadsword.

“I told you to get out. I’m not gonna say it again.”

“I have money. Please, sir. I just wan–“

The Butcher had had enough. He snatched up a 72 ounce rib eye (bone in), jumped swiftly over the counter, and swung the flaccid steak with lethal force at the intruder’s head. The gigantic slab of meat wiggled in a wide arc with increasing speed and smashed into Boris’s face, breaking his nose and bloodying his mouth. Boris flew back, his feet just inches above the tiles. The way the bed sheet flapped as he hovered made him look like a real ghost, but instead of passing through the wall, his body slammed into it and he fell to the floor, nearly unconscious.

The Butcher walked over to the crumpled nuisance and slapped it around with the rib eye a little more. He then ripped the filthy cloth off its almost lifeless body.

“You! I remember you. You’re that little zombie boy.”

Blood leaked from Boris’s mouth and ran down his corroding face as he smiled up at the hulking death bringer and weakly croaked:

“It’s Zombie Man.”

The Butcher cocked the steak back behind his head and brought it down like a hammer. A wet whistle preceded a SMACK! Our hero, feeling fairly flattened, saw the Butcher move to ready a second blow, which both he and the Butcher knew would put him down for good, so he latched on to the juicy weapon tightly. The Butcher chuckled and easily lifted the steak in front of himself with one arm and Boris came up with it. Grabbing on to the steak fiercely, biting into it to improve his grip, Boris rose until the two were eye to eye. The brute looked at the rabid madman curiously for a few seconds. He didn’t know if he was more annoyed or amused with the pest.

“You’re a hungry little fucker, ain’tcha?”

The Butcher shook the giant piece of meat, but he could not free it from the hungry creature. Being jerked back and forth, enduring whiplash, Boris frantically clung to the steak with both arms and his teeth. The room wobbled around him as he hung on. His teeth sank farther into the meat and he hugged it with all of his strength. He felt weak, but he had never been so strong. He was going to bring the steak back to Bugger.

The Butcher laughed heartily as he shook and shook the dead flesh being clutched by seemingly dead flesh.

“You know what? I’m impressed. You can have it. It’s no good to me now.”

Holding the mishmash of meat and miscreant in front of him like a dirty diaper, the Butcher walked outside and threw the whole mess overhand towards the street. Boris watched the whole world whirl by before – Wham! Landing hard on his ass, still hugging the steak, he sat there stupidly. It was then clear to him just how big the hunk of meat was. It was as big as his torso and covered him like a beef blanket. He sat there longer, studying the thing incredulously. His entirety hurt, but he didn’t care. He couldn’t believe it. He had steak. His plan had worked perfectly.

Bugger had not moved all day. He was still asleep, relaxing in the cool breeze tunneling lightly down the alley. Boris found him lying there and smiled down at his best friend. He nudged the sleeping dog with his foot.

“Got us some real food, boy. We’re gonna be doin’ some good eatin’ tonight.”

Bugger woke with a start. What had resembled road kill seconds before was now full of life and excitedly running circles around its caretaker, the Guardian of Garbage. Even with his grievous injuries, Boris could not stop his heart from warming at the sight of his buddy. The duo sat down on the concrete, preparing for dinner. Boris did his best to cook the huge steak with a BIC lighter he had found on the ground, but the small, hand-held flame only charred the outside of it in grayish spots, leaving the center completely raw. Finding the eatin’ as good as it was likely to get, the main course was served. Boris gnawed gently on one end of it while Bugger tore himself off a large piece and swallowed it whole. Boris had lost some teeth from the meat beating, making it difficult for him to eat, but he was relieved. For the first time in a long time, he was focused not on surviving, but on enjoying himself, which he wasn’t. He was miserable. His mouth was so busted up he could hardly chew. But Boris could see how happy he had made Bugger, and that made it all a little easier to swallow.