a/n: four months! pretty good for me, innit? that's such a short period of time, i don't even have a lot to say. except i do, because i always have a buttload of things to say before i give you a chapter.

firstly, i realized i totally forgot to tell you guys last chapter, that last summer i was in disney world. that's not the gr8 part. the gr8 part is that i was at mgm studios, which has a new name now, something dumb like hollywood studios or something i dunno BUT WHEN I WAS LIKE 9 IT WAS STILL MGM STUDIOS AND THAT IS WHAT I WILL CONTINUE TO CALL IT - it's the one with that batshit ride, you know, tower of terror? i thought i was a grown ass woman and i could take that on now, because it scared me shitless when i was 9, but it turns out that thing still makes me shit my pants. i don't trust those fucking seatbelts man ok ANYWAY i was in hollywoodmgmfuckyouinthebutt studios and i was chillin in a 50'S THEMED RESTAURANT and my waiter was named CRAIG and i basically lost all my shit. i don't know why i'm telling you this, though, because the only people who probably still read this story are the ones i sent that mass text out to as soon as it happened 8| it was then i knew i had to pick this story up again. except it didn't work because i didn't update until december, but REGARDLESS IT WAS PRETTY SWEET

okay what else what else. um, this chapter's shorter than all the rest of them? HAHA i hate having to keep myself within a 8k-13k range, i just can't fill shit up anymore. but, i said fuck the police, i'll stop when i want, so this chapter is really like 6k WHICH I THINK IS A FINE, LOVELY LITTLE CONCISE LENGTH for important things to happen. this chapter is important as fuck but i don't want to blow it up for you, just read it and love it plz

oh oh here's something else: i made clyde's real facebook! i know everyone does that roleplay shit but i made his profile practically identical to the beginning of the story. i would have done that like two years ago but idk IT SEEMED LIKE A GOOD IDEA TO DO RIGHT NOW. if you wanna add him just go to facebook dot com slash robotunipornattack. i'm going to warn you now, he's an awful person to be friends with. he'll just spam your feed with robot unicorn attack achievements, but i assure you, he's not sorry.

another thing: i went back and edited the first three chapters A TEENSY BIT you won't even be able to tell i edited them, so i'll just tell you right here what i added: craig's a smoker. he was really a smoker this whole entire time, but i just really really kept forgetting to put that in places. he digs those marlboro menthols. don't bother looking for the details, i put it in like two or three places alone. BUT craig felt empty and incomplete without his cigarettes so now i am happy with that. also, i put all the chapter titles in lowercase letters because capitalization has grown on me as ugly. of course, i'll write entire chapters properly, but i made all those dumb lyrics lowercase too. so! there's that.

speaking of chapter titles, the title of this chapter was TOO LONG BY ONE FUCKING CHARACTER. so i just omitted the word "mod" but just remember ffnet is a filthy liar and you know the true title of this chapter.

by the by, i'm dumb and overexcited by things, so i'll probably be making real iphone and facebook screenshots for all their social networking conversations. i've already made one between clyde and kevin, which goes with THIS chapter, so i haven't posted it publicly yet. but if you wanna see some dumb screenshots, as well as notes and photos and whatnot pertaining to this story, go to relationspaceships dot tumblr dot com slash tagged slash houseflies. because i am just such a DORK and i put effort into irl things.

~*enough dawdling*~

okay not enough dawdling. i need to do proper thank yous because i'd be a cuntbasket if i didn't WHICH I DIDN'T, THIS IS AN EDIT. okay so big fat lovely thank you goes out to my bff amanda (a-study-in-kink at tumblr) for basically writing me a template for one of these scenes, like, over a year ago. also maybe also i guess lee (flashgordoninsilverunderwear at tumblr) gets a thank you for actually being kevin in some of these parts. also shout-out to my cheesoids angel (puzzlie at tumblr) and laura (pukingneoneels at tumblr), and also my brother cas (unproductiveairman at tumblr) for drawing pretty pictures and eating mac anc cheese and watching netflix while i selfishly wrote this entire thing on his laptop.

i hope you have as much fun reading this as i had writing it :o) love you guys xoxo

v. the rise of the mod vegan artist curtains

That night, Clyde dreamed he was dead. He dreamed that he was dead and nobody cared. This wasn't the first time alcohol slithered its way into his subconscious, pushing his emotional buttons. Drinking and dreaming was not okay. Friends don't let friends drink and dream.

When he woke up, he felt a trail of dried drool crusting down to the middle of his neck. He was sure he was still dead. I'm dead. I'm actually dead. I'm over. It's all over. He rolled over, deciding to deal with his facial crusts later. He was sticky and sweaty, and he could smell his own rancid breath, a mixture of morning and Jägermeister, maybe. Or was it tequila? Something fruitier—Sangria? The rest of Tweek's White Russian, perhaps. It couldn't have been all of the above. Maybe it was. He would've done that. He drank the troubles away. He most nearly forgot how badly the stand-up went, but he remembered the fifty dollars.

Eyes still cemented shut, he felt around in his pockets for the fifty. Instead, his fingers got caught in what felt like a rubber band, and a fuzzy piece of cardboard.

That was it. Those were the rest of the smells. A fresh combination of lemons, strawberries, Christmas trees, and what was probably a breed of sexy ocean breeze.

He opened his eyes completely to find that he was still scrunched in the backseat of Tits. He sat up, bumping his head slightly on the door. It hurt. Everything hurt. He felt like his head was screwed on crooked. He caught a glimpse of the floor of the car—dried puke. Lovely. Carry on Wayward Son was stuck in his head. He groaned out of pain, and the fear that he would associate that song with the pain.

He slinked out of the car, bones cracking. The morning air was frigid and if Clyde wasn't actually dead when he woke up, he wished he was dead now. Thankfully, the car was parked just across the street from his apartment building.

The air fresheners were still dangling. Some of them fell off when he crossed the street.

He got to the lobby, realized he didn't have any keys, planted his face on the glass panel of the door, and decided to just nap there.

He was so disoriented, he couldn't form words in his head—all he knew was that he had get in open keys home sleep. He also needed to money Craig where comedy fifty ocean lemons.

He felt around the array of doorbells. Too many apartments, he articulated in his head. Where mine.

What the hell was his apartment again? There was a number, and a letter. goddammitgoddammitgoddammit

16D. That was it. 16D, he was sure. He pushed that button. Repeatedly. If Craig was asleep, Clyde was reasoning with himself why the floor he was standing on looked comfortable to sleep on.

Loud static came from the little speaker, startling Clyde, but also relieving him.

"Who's it," Craig said.

"S'me," Clyde mumbled at the speaker.

"Who?" Craig said louder.

"S'ME. SSS'ME, CLYDE."

"Oh, shit," Craig said, cut off by the louder sound of the door buzzer. Clyde stumbled through the door, so excited, so happy to be closer to his bed.

Clyde slammed the front door behind him, moaning out loud, "You left me in the car last night, you aaaaaasshole."

However, Craig was not the only person in his home. At the dining table, right across from Craig, sat a chipper, glowingly cheerful Betsy Donovan. They were drinking from white mugs, having a laugh. A goddamn laugh! Clyde wasn't having this.

"Mom, what, oh my God, hi. I—you can't—I'm dead. You can't talk to me, I'm not alive right now, okay. Dead dead dead dead dead. Bye."

Betsy stood up with open arms. "Honey!"

"No, mom, I'm dead. You can't even hug me. I am dead."

Clyde didn't accept the hug, and instead went to the bathroom, because he couldn't stand for his mother to see him like that—covered in drool, puke, eye crust and frilly little fresheners. Why didn't she call? He did have his phone in his back pocket. He forgot to look. Behind the shut bathroom door, he took it out. 13 missed calls, it chimed at him. Oh.

"Why," he asked himself, as he splashed his face with cold water, running his finger across the drool trail. "Why." He rubbed the crust out of his eyes, the vomit from the corners of his lips. He woke up a monster. It was hard to wash away. He even asked his reflection why. He looked like he just got an extreme makeover from Golgothan and his team of shitnymphs.

Was it safe to leave the bathroom? Now that his mom was here, did he still have a free pass to go back to sleep? Maybe she could rub him to sleep, sing him to sleep, like she used to. But he was a grown-ass man now, and she must have been here for some sort of grown-ass reason, like she needed help with the plumbing in her house or something, because Clyde was just so handy.

He quickly overcame the fear, assuming she just wanted to say hi or something. He left the bathroom, looking just a tad more socially acceptable than before. "Hi, mom," he said, making up the hug.

"Oh, honey!" She embraced him tightly. "Are you okay? Craig said you were feeling sick."

"Mm? Yeah. I'm fine." He shot Craig a look. Just a look. Craig didn't pick up. He sipped his coffee.

"You want tea, honeybun?" Betsy cooed.

"We don't have tea," said Clyde.

"Oh, I brought tea. You want chamomile? Sleepytime? I even brought a whole sampler, so if you want any fruity blend, you got it!"

"Mmhm." Words weren't an option right now. Clyde didn't even pick all the air fresheners off of himself. He started unlooping the ones on his pants. "No thanks, Ma, I need t'sleep."

"It'll make you feel better. I've already started warming up some water." She checked the little red pot on the stove. Clyde took the seat across from Craig. There was a large plastic bag in the middle of the table, filled with—Clyde didn't know. He peeked inside.

"Oh, yes!" Betsy said. "That's what I'm here for, sweetie. The curtains."

"The curtains," Clyde repeated. He tried to sound more interrogative. No such luck.

"These were your nana's curtains," Betsy said, patting the bag. "They're a bit too loud for both of our houses. And since this place is in dire need of color..."

Craig nodded in agreement at the statement.

Goddammit, no, Clyde thought, don't agree with her.

"... I'm passing these down to you!" Betsy chirped. "Craig loves them. They'll look great."

The curtains were sunshine yellow, with scattered rectangles of different colors and sizes. What could they be called—mod vegan artist curtains? Yeah. They weren't vegans, or artists. Mostly not vegans. These curtains did not belong. "Mm. That's nice but. We already have curtains. Just take them back to the sleep." Clyde rested his cheek on his fist. His eyelids felt heavy. "Store," he corrected. "I meant store."

"You mean those god awful grey shutters? Those aren't curtains. They're god awful grey shutters, that's what they are." Betsy carefully poured the hot water into Clyde's Aquaman mug. (Clyde identified with Aquaman, because everyone thought talking to fish would be a useless superpower, but he was actually a pretty swell guy.)

"The shutters are fine," said Clyde.

"What tea did you say you wanted, sweetie?"

"I don't want tea."

"You need some, hon, you look like a goddamn trainwreck. Sleepytime will do you good, you can relax after we see how the curtains look."

I don't waaaant to see how the curtains look. Clyde touched the curtains, tried to get connected with them for a split second. Maybe they were the good guys. One second passed and he decided that, no, they weren't.

"Aren't you a little alarmed," Clyde said to his mom, trying to open his eyes all the way, "that Craig left me in the car all night?"

"You looked peaceful," Craig said with another slurp of his beverage.

Betsy soaked the teabag in the mug, stirring lightly. "You're alive, aren't you?" she said.

"No!" Clyde cried. "I am the opposite of alive. I told you. I'm dead. Deady deady dead. I am going to sleep. I am going to go be unconscious and vulnerable for an extended period of time and none of you shall give a shit or two."

Betsy shook her head. "How about you don't drink as much as you did last night?" She rested her soft hand on his perspiring forehead. The wedding ring irritated his skin. "It's entirely trashy and unnecessary." She set the warm mug down on the little coaster that Clyde had borrowed from Outback Steakhouse, swirling the teabag around again. Clyde wanted to tell her that she was entirely trashy and unnecessary, because that was a default comeback, but this was his lovely mommy, offering her care, and he wasn't even taking it because he wanted to sleep and the curtains were already ruining his life.

"Now take your tea," Betsy continued, running her red manicured fingers through her son's hair, "and get some sleep. Craig and I will put up the curtains."

Craig's eyebrows jerked upward. He struggled between excitement for spending time with Mrs. Donovan and kind-of sort-of what felt like worry for Clyde's wellbeing. He felt like a parent again. Maybe I should go tuck him in, he told himself. I should. I really should. They don't call me Tucker for nothing. I hope a stray bullet finds my head for saying that.

Craig actually escorted Clyde to bed from there. It wasn't out of affection, he convinced himself. He just wanted to have a private talk with him.

"You're fine, right?" He asked once Clyde was lying down. "I don't have to call any ambulances, do I."

"No. I just need to sleep."

"Drink your tea." Craig gestured to it.

"I'm gonna let it seep more."

"You're gonna fall asleep and it'll be cold and nasty when you wake up."

Clyde leaned up a little and took his hoodie off, tossing it aside. "That's okay."

Craig lifted his hands. Hesitated. His fingers twitched more, but then he just went for it, and blanketed Clyde in the comforter. "I just tucked you in," Craig said. Craig wanted to say, I call it a Tucker Tuck. They're very special. But he didn't.

"Why," Clyde murmured.

"I don't know. You look like you need it." Spending time with Mrs. Donovan did this to him. He knew this. He was buttered, softened, and he was handling it the best he could.

"Where's my fifty bucks." The words were barely audible, but Craig's ears were waiting for that question in particular, so he heard it perfectly.

"I spent about half of it on your personal air fresheners. Sorry. The other twenty-five's in the kitchen, in the cookie jar. That's where the funds go now."

"I thought that was where… the cookies go."

"We're out of cookies."

"Oh." Clyde shut his eyes tighter, squeezing the pillow to his face. "I'd rather have cookies than money."

"Cookies aren't going to pay the bills."

"I… hate you." Clyde had to get it out. He was disappointed about the half-spent fifty and the cookie loss. But he wasn't conscious enough to feel all the emotions he could.

"If it makes you feel any better, I hate the fucking curtains," Craig said. "We're putting them up, though. Just to humor your mom." He paused. "I like your mom."

"Iknowyoulikemymom."

"Yeah. She makes good coffee, too."

"Mmm." Clyde felt himself falling into a dark dreamland, but he still felt Craig's presence. "Hey, man…"

"Yeah?"

"Are you gonna be here… when I wake up."

"Yeah, why?"

"'Cause… 'Cause I wanna… carvethepumpkinwithyou. We can carve it. … with our names."

"Yeah. That sounds good. Maybe we can make your mom's lemon bars or something. To make up for the cookies."

"Mhm." There was no more energy left for this. He expected Craig to leave a long time ago. This was too odd—he must have been dreaming. It's happened before. It was the limbo between whatever reality was and whatever it wasn't. Maybe if he asked it nicely, it'd leave. "Please lemme sleep," Clyde said, pulling the covers over his head.

Craig nodded, but after realizing Clyde couldn't see, he said, "Okay." He stood up, and before going to close the shutters, he kneeled at the edge of the bed. "Bro hug?" he tried.

But Clyde was already fast asleep.

Clyde woke up but he didn't wake up, because he wasn't sure he slept at all. He had dreams, but not dreams he could feel himself in the middle of—just soundless images he could see vaguely in darkness. When he finally craned his eyes open, his room was dark and blurry, but stripes of sunlight seeped through the shutters and rippled over the shapes of his bed. He shut his eyes again, desperate for more rest. He'd never been more relieved that he didn't have to be anywhere.

However, he found motivation to wake up when he remembered he and Craig had a pumpkin-carving date. He squirmed over to look at the clock—the red numbers glowed 5:54. In the evening? Of course. The sun was still up. What time was it when he went to bed, like, 11 AM? He wondered how he managed to achieve six and a half hours of nothing. Then he remembered he's achieved nothing in more impressive periods of time.

Maybe Craig left another one of those notes. Something to ruin the rest of Clyde's Friday. "Dear Loser (CLYDE)," it would say, "I know you think I was being your bro by tucking you into bed. But HAHA JOKE'S ON YOU! Because I pissed in your bed too. I am the Piss King."

Clyde searched his nightstand for the predicted note, but no such thing existed. He smelled his sheets—nope, fresh linen. Perhaps he was underestimating Craig's bro-like qualities. Maybe Craig's heart grew three sizes that day.

When he finally got out of bed, and dragged himself about the apartment, he learned that it hadn't.

"Craig?" Clyde called, as if Craig were a munchkin hiding in a bush. There was rustling, though. The sounds of a hyper Fajita. "Hey, girl," Clyde said to her. She had a proper cage now. That was Craig's doing. Clyde didn't remember how or when.

He brought a leaf of lettuce from the kitchen for her to poke at. "Have you seen Craig?" he asked her. She nibbled. "No? Oh, he's a big fat meanie, isn't he?" Clyde decided that she was agreeing. However, Fajita was grateful for her new home. "At least you don't have to pay rent," Clyde said. "You just sit there looking cute." Fajita agreed with that, too. "No, but seriously, where the fuck is Craig." Fajita did not know. "You are good for nothing," he said, pushing the rest of the lettuce into her cage.

Very soon, Clyde found himself on Facebook again. He made a status.

Clyde Donovan
i still have a hangover but at least my bunny is here for me

Very soon following that, Clyde found himself masturbating. It was to very standard, boring, stone-faced lesbian pornography.

Oh.

Very soon following his wank session, he found himself staring extremely intently at the relationship status options on Facebook. He wondered what Bebe would've wanted him to put. Would the wrong choice put a dent in his sex life? That happened to Stan Marsh. He didn't want to be Stan Marsh. No one wanted to be Stan Marsh.

Select Relation:
Single
In a relationship
Engaged
Married
It's complicated

Good thinking, Facebook. Clyde thought that last one was a very good answer for those who were confused. But he kept reading on.

Widowed

Everything up until 'widowed,' Clyde decided, was the sequence of a story. After marriage, things become complicated. Then you get widowed? He just read a Nicholas Sparks novel in nine words. He thought Facebook was considerate for saving him the time.

Separated

Separated? Aren't we all separated, one way or another? This was getting too deep for him.

Divorced
In a civil union
In a domestic partnership

Well, he and Bebe definitely didn't apply to anything at the end of the arc. How can you get widowed, then separated, then divorced, then going from that to being in a civil union, then in a domestic partnership? Facebook knew the cruelness and complications of being in love.

Complications.

That was the king relationship status. It's complicated. Yes, of course, why didn't he see it before? It was vague enough for people to assume he had a sex life, but not wrong enough for Bebe to get angry. That was it. He had won.

Clyde Donovan went from being "single" to "it's complicated."

That took care of that, and if Bebe had anything to say about it, how could Clyde be wrong? Was it not complicated? The clever trick, Clyde had discovered, is that there is no such option as "it's simple," because relationships are by no means simple, and therefore the "it's complicated" option was the most standard and universal choice. If there was an "it's simple" option, and his significant other chose that option, oh, boy, would Clyde be furious. His feelings would not be resorted to simplicity. Clyde was a complex man. If Craig was there, he would have agreed.

Where the fuck is Craig.

It was a good thing Clyde had his trusty cell phone, or else he would've never been able to send Craig the following text.

To: Craig
6:56 PM
dude where are you? we have pumpkins to bake and lemon bars to carve

Clyde sat down next to Fajita's cage. "Let's wait for Craig together," he said to her. The lettuce was totally gone. He was impressed. "What's so special about lettuce, anyway? It is a tasteless leaf." He held the phone up to the cage, so she could see if Craig was about to reply, too. "Sometimes I forget you're a rabbit. Lettuce must be the best fucking thing you know. Like me and cheeseburgers."

Cheeseburgers.

He decided to send Craig another text.

To: Craig
6:58 PM
oh yeah if you're with your cheeseburger then fuck you. i'm more important than him, i'm mroe than a cheeseburger i am like a steak. i am a steak marinated in a thick coat of bromance. and also pumpkin carvings and lemon bar recipes. COME TO ME

"Do you think he's ignoring me?" He asked Fajita. "If anything, I should be ignoring him. He spent my hard-earned money on air fresheners. He's really pretty selfish and thinks that everything he does for himself is for my good." He put the phone on the floor. Fajita was facing the wall now, but he still spoke. "But he's just digging our shithole deeper than it already is. It's like he's trying to get to China or something. Doesn't he know he can't actually dig to China?" He looked away from Fajita to look at the pumpkin sitting on the kitchen counter. The carving kit was right next to it, half-opened. "But he's making it seem so easy, like China's right around the corner by now. I mean, I don't know what to fucking do." He paused, letting air pass through his nose. He picked up his phone and fidgeted with it, mindlessly looking at his own sent texts to remember what he last said. "And he tends to shut people out, so his life is essentially pretty empty, so his hobbies basically include bringing me down, milking his own self-pride out of me because he values himself so little. I bet that's why he keeps me around." Fajita hopped to the opposite side of the cage. Perhaps this information alarmed her. "He still puts up with me, though. And he does do things for me, I guess. He made me pizza and killed that cockroach. And he lets me have drinks free at 57's. But he did piss in my shoes. Does he know how difficult it is, being his friend?" He sat up on his knees, to get a closer look at the twitching rabbit. "He let me keep you, for crying out loud! You're a wild animal." He his eyes widened. "Shit, did we even wash you?"

The facts were these: While Clyde was having sex with Bebe one day prior, at approximately 3:58 in the afternoon, Craig had spent forty-nine dollars and eighty-four cents on a proper cage for Fajita. Then, after setting up the cage, at 4:49, he managed to hold Fajita in such a fashion that she did not gratuitously scratch him, in order to bring her to the sink for a thorough shampooing.

Clyde knew none of this. However, his wonderment entitled him to a brand new excuse to text Craig.

To: Craig
7:07 PM
hey just wondering if you ever gave fajita a bath? add that to our to-do list. still waitin on yuo for the pmupkin and lemon bars. plz text back

Craig was dead. That was it. That was all there was to it. Craig was either dead or ignoring him, and even if Craig was dead, he must have been ignoring him in the afterlife. They both knew that if either of them died, they'd haunt this apartment. Craig had just died and he didn't even have the decency to haunt Clyde right away. Clyde was offended. Sure, the check-in desk in hell might have had a long line, but not long enough to have left Clyde in such a suspense that he had to start carving the pumpkin without Craig.

Pumpkin carving was not as easy as television made it look. First, he had to open the top. Clyde knew he was not cut out for brain surgery, so this was especially nervewracking. Once the top was off, he put it on his head. Turning around to smile at Fajita, it fell off, leaving orange little particles in his hair.

Clyde stumbled upon a problem when his hand got stuck in the pumpkin.

While it was stuck, he tried to gather as many seeds as he could, but he couldn't even move his fingers. He wondered if this was an okay reason to call 911. Fantasies crossed his mind, fantasies of a dark future where he lives the rest of his life with rotten pumpkins for hands. Clyde Pumpkinhands, they'd call him. He'd get Tim Burton to direct the movie, and, to shake things up a little, he'd get Johnny Depp to play the lead.

"What's that?" Clyde asked the imaginary Craig. "You think I'm a dumbass for making the hole too small? Good one. Oh, you have another one? This isn't the first time I've had my hand awkwardly stuck in a slimy hole? You're full of them, Tucker, full of them."

Imaginary Craig laughed at his own jokes.

Clyde buttered his hand. He couldn't get past the thick rim of the hole, so he tried repeatedly penetrating it, hoping the buttery lubricant would seep downward. Then, miraculously, his hand popped from the hole, doused in seeded orange goop.

He classified that as a near-death experience.

The sink drain was caked with pumpkin residue. The pumpkin wasn't entire clean on the inside, but Clyde decided he wasn't strong enough to take on the rest of the pumpkin's innards. He just wanted to stab it.

So he did, very soon realizing he was nowhere near the pumpkin-carving connoisseur. The pumpkin was actually too small to fit both their names on one side, if the letters were large and clear and bubbly. Clyde did not know how to carve such art. He did, more or less, simply engrave his and Craig's names into the pumpkin, thinly and illegibly. It resembled that of a couple's names carved in tree bark. But this was better, Clyde told himself. Bromance won over romance, in most if not all respects. Bromance didn't come with the extra baggage that romance did—thinking about it, why wasn't bromance a relationship option on Facebook? Was it too precious an idea for the likes of the Internet? Too precious to be resorted to a measly little option? If it was so precious, why wasn't Craig here right now?

Clyde flipped his laptop open again.

With his webcam, he took a picture of the finished pumpkin. He posted it to his own Facebook wall with the caption, "craig is missing, but i still carved this pumpkin for him. if you find him, i am offering a 1, maybe 2 poptart reward."

Admiring his own post, he noticed something. The pumpkin did not read, "CLYDE & CRAIG," but instead it read, "CLYDE & CRIAG."

Maybe the webcam just messed it up.

He looked at the real one. He'd written "CRIAG."

"Why didn't you tell me?" He asked the air, though he hoped the question made it through to both Fajita and Imaginary Craig.

Then, a sound of acknowledgement came from his laptop, startling him.

Kevin Stoley
Who's Criag?

Clyde squinted at his computer. This fucking Kevin guy.

Clyde Donovan
my best bro

Facebook was kind enough to let Clyde know that Kevin was typing. Finally, he was not alone.

Kevin Stoley
Well, if he were, you might have spelled his name right.

Clyde huffed at the screen. Way to salt the wound.

Clyde Donovan
well, if he were, he would be here right now and he couldve carved his own name right

Kevin Stoley
Where is he?

Clyde Donovan
idk

Kevin Stoley
You called him?

Clyde Donovan
he totes hates getting called
i texted him a few times tho
idk man he said he would be here

Kevin Stoley
You're really attached to him, huh?

Clyde Donovan
hell nah i aint gay
its just that he said we were gonna make lemon bras
i dont want to do it without him
well shit i already did the pumpkin
ugh why did i do that
why did i do anything
maybe I should just go back to sleep
fuck
fuck
fuck
fuck
uck
FUCK

Kevin Stoley
Well, I'm sorry, dude.

Clyde Donovan
wanna come over and play xbox or something

Kevin Stoley
I'm not going to be your rebound. Criag will be back soon, I promise.

Clyde Donovan
are you sure

Kevin Stoley
No.
But I do know he wouldn't avoid carving pumpkins and making lemon bars with you.
He's not a monster.

It dawned on Clyde that Kevin really, really didn't know Craig.

Clyde Donovan
yes he is
and so am i
that's why we're friends

Kevin Stoley
I highly doubt that. Everything'll be okay.

Clyde Donovan
why are you like so nice

Kevin Stoley
Why are you like, so dependent? Do you always get like this when he leaves?

Clyde Donovan
no
i just
fcuk
fuck
i have these dumb dreams ok
the dream i just had was like
i was aquaman in my dream
and no one liked me
because all i could do was talk to fish
and i was just a shitty superhero

This was an old dream, but the old over-soaked tea on his nightstand reminded him of the recurring Aquaman dreams.

Kevin Stoley
Are you stupid?

Clyde Donovan
it's been suggested

Kevin Stoley
Aquaman can do EVERYTHING.

Clyde Donovan
what

Kevin Stoley
Dude, Aquaman does more than talk to fish. He has infravision, he can hurl bolts of hard water. He's basically the king of the sea.

Clyde looked up Aquaman on Wikipedia—this kid wasn't lying.

Clyde Donovan
what are you serious
why
why didn't anyone tell me this
didnt he just go around fetching dunkin donuts for the justice league

Kevin Stoley
No, he was too busy kicking ass.

Clyde Donovan
so whjy isn't HE the leader of hte justice league if he is just so super
all this time i felt like i was appreciating an underdog and comparing myself to this poor guy
and you're telling me he's the king of the fuckin sea

Kevin Stoley
How did you not know this? His alias is "King of the Seven Seas".

Clyde Donovan
but
but ugh
i need another superhero to compare myself too
do you know anyone else worthless and pathetic

Kevin Stoley
Worthless and pathetic superheroes? No.

Clyde Donovan
oh
well okay kev
thanks

Kevin Stoley
You're welcome.

Clyde did not like that answer, so he closed the Facebook tab. He knew he'd open it again soon, eager to see the feedback on his pumpkin picture. But he did not want to be associated with pompous know-it-alls whose names started with 'K' and ended with 'evin'.

He called Craig. Once. It went straight to voicemail.

"Hey, dude. Sorry for calling. Where are you?"

For the first time in a long time, Tits did not smell like a dumpster. The carpets had been shampooed, washing away any last coffee stain, cigarette ash, and the fumes they clouded her with. The Marlboro packs, the White Castle boxes, the Dunkin' Donuts baggies, all history. She smelled lemon fresh, and sported a few air fresheners of her own—one of which was shaped like a dolphin. Craig didn't adore dolphins. He just thought that a dolphin dangling from the rear view mirror was kind of hilarious.

He'd gotten the cheapest cleaning job he could afford, but he was satisfied with it. He'd forgotten what the backseat looked like.

Getting ready to take his leave from the gas station, he checked his phone. The screen was dim. Briefly showed him an empty battery. He put it down in the cup holder, letting it die. Well, fuck. He hoped he wasn't needed. He did wonder, though, if Clyde had already woken up and if he was feeling okay, if perhaps he had to vomit again, and if he made it to the bathroom in time. Did Clyde even have any more alcohol to upchuck? The backseat carpets had been thick with Clyde's puke. Maybe that was all of it. Maybe it wasn't. Craig didn't know for sure. It was time for him to head home to find out, but he still took Clyde into consideration. He'd pick up a burrito for him, from Taco Bell. Craig wanted a chicken quesadilla for himself as well. Maybe a large Baja Blast. He deserved it—he got the car cleaned, after all.

Craig tapped the heel of his hand the steering wheel, silently apologizing to the new lemony air. He held a lit cigarette between his fingers, smoke dancing with his erratic taps.

It began to drizzle, again. The roads shone with the rain, and were quickly obscured by falling droplets, splattering across the windshield. Craig turned on the wipers with an irritant flick. The rain quickly got heavier, and he set the wipers to go faster, faster, passing by with annoying squeaks.

A tune was playing on the radio that sounded very distantly familiar, but he couldn't quite place it. Had to be 70's pop.

(here in my car
i feel safest of all
i can lock all my doors
it's the only way to live
in cars.)

Craig turned the volume up a bit. It was kind of catchy, actually. He bobbed his head as he turned up a narrow street. It was only one lane, with only a few cars parked here and there. Few fast food joints glowed up ahead, the Taco Bell in particular.

(here in my car
i can only receive
i can listen to you
it keeps me stable for days
in cars.)

And then he was violently wrenched from his reverie, for several things happened all at once, very quickly. Maybe even in a blur, or slow-motion, but he couldn't tell. First, he saw some guy running, in a panic, after a shadow. A black shape darted forward and the guy lurched, yelling after it. The shape scrambled into the street—right in front of the car—

Tires were screeching—there was a jumble of hoarse swears, and the horrifying sound of metal being twisted and warped, and a sickening crunch. Somewhere, a dog barked loudly and Craig swore he could hear someone call his name. He blinked, trying to keep his eyes open, but something warm was trickling onto his face and he didn't think it was rain.

He was looking into a pillow of marshmallows—no, that was an airbag. He was in a car. Or, what was left of one. Seething, he lifted his head—and immediately wished he hadn't. The world spun through spider-cracked glass, and there was an incessant ringing in his ears.

Breathe, he told himself. Damage control. He tried to shift, but was immobilized. Glancing down, he saw his arm, kind of. Patches of pale skin and blood, pinned against his body. His left arm was crunched between the steering wheel and the caved-in door, broken like a snapped chopstick. He coughed, world spinning.

Someone was calling his name, but that couldn't be right. His eyelids were falling, slowly—the last things he saw glowing in the darkness were the numbers 7:07. He let his eyes close, shielding his world in a hood of darkness.

(here in my car
i know i've started to think
about leaving tonight
although nothing seems right
in cars.)

Clyde wondered why his fleshlight had been so expensive—but it all made sense now. It was a bad idea to set his Amazon account to Japanese. Clyde did not speak or read or know the slightest smidgen of the language. He didn't know enough to find the settings page again to set it back to English. Entering "fleshlight" in Google Translate did not go over well in Japanese, so he tried different combinations of words that applied to fleshlight, like "fleshy masturbation toy" and "electric sex toy." When he did this, about a week prior to this day, he had entered the clearest translation he found in the Amazon search box. This was a very reasonable explanation as to why he did not order a masturbation toy to begin with, but instead, what had come in the mail was a Razor E200 Electric Scooter. In lime green.

It arrived in the mail that night. He didn't know what to do with it, but the conclusion to sell it came very quickly. What had also come very quickly was an alarming call from Craig's mother.

From the other line, Clyde heard hysterical crying and rapid breaths. Then words. "My—my stupid fucking son is in the hospital, where are you?"

That was too many words at once.

Clyde's palms became sweaty, struggling to hold the phone in place. "What—what? Where am I? Your stupid fucking—what is in the what?"

"Craig! The car crashed and—where were you?"

What was Clyde supposed to do—express worry for Craig, or come up with an excuse about where he was instead of saving Craig's life? He shook, voice trembling. "I—I've been home, sleeping and—what? What happened?" Clyde should have trusted himself when he thought Craig was dead. He really was. This was happening and his thoughts were traveling too fast for him to keep up, if Craig was actually dead, would he be able to continue doing—anything?

"They say a—they say a dog ran in front of the car. The roads were slippery and he swerved—"

Clyde's eyes got misty.

"—and the car hit a thing… like, the fucking Taco Bell sign or something—"

Clyde gasped. That too? He wanted to know more about what happened to Craig, if he was going to be fucking okay and if Clyde had to start screaming and crying, but nervously, he blurted, "Is Taco Bell okay?"

"What?" Mrs. Tucker screeched. "I—well, it took the fire department a lot of time to—" She sniffled, "to pry him out of the car. His arm was crushed… we haven't really, gotten any further information—"

"Is he going to be okay?" Clyde shouted.

"We don't know," Mrs. Tucker said. "Just get yourself to the hospital. Please."

"Okay. Okay," Clyde said. "See you there."

Mrs. Tucker shortly uttered a goodbye. Clyde hung up, wiping a tear from his cheek. He grabbed a chunk of lettuce from the kitchen, and dropped it in Fajita's cage.

"Hey," he said to her, "Daddy's gotta go. Craig's in trouble." He sniffled. "You be good, okay?"

She picked at the lettuce. He took that as a "Yes, goodbye, Godspeed."

Clyde didn't have a car. That was his first revelation. His second revelation was that, what he did have, was a brand new lime green Razor E200 Electric Scooter.

And he was on his way.