So here it is, ladies and gentle-men, the Epilogue to this endless project of mine. I've gotta thank all of you for your devoted assistance in this and I'd go on a crazy name-fest if I wasn't afraid I'd leave some people out XD I will tell you, go read Saviors and Hellion Smiles by Harlequin Sequins and take a glance at If Things Come Alive by Anatomy of Kisses. There's some pretty neat potential in that second story to build to, and the first one's just incredible to the umpteenth degree. Also, carouse ACleverName's profile because I've never read amazing Jonathan Crane fanfiction before, until I checked it out. Thanks to everybody, including ACleverName and Othello 101, who are both radical artists who made me some Harvey/Cleave stuff that I adore. Anyway, without further ado, here's the Epilogue. On with the show!

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Everything spins when I come to. There's a sense of pure, blossoming pain in my entire abdomen and all I know is that there's a rainbow colored fan wildly oscillating above me. Of course, I assume that my lack of sight has to do with the fact that my glasses aren't on my face.

And there it is, ladies and gents, the man of the hour, the guest of honor. Manic laughter fills my ears, and I sit up from the mattress that feels like a cave floor.

"Goooooooooood morning, sunshine!"

"Hello, fuck-face."

There are unmistakable smears of white that stand, blotchy and repulsive in my vision. His makeup is running; there are little cracks that give way to pale skin. The creases in his forehead run like deep, ancient rivers. If only I could focus for more than five seconds.

"Someone's got their hot-pink underpants in a complete knot. You're hurting my feelings again, Harvey-cakes."

"You fucking threw me to the bats, Cleave."

"Oh, no, no, no, no. See, if you die, then who will help me find the mouses, George?"

I pause, and raise an eyebrow, crinkling my nose in distasteful confusion. I…don't want to know what that means, but I have a faint inkling like he'll explain it anyway.

"What did you think, I was…uh….gonna let you go, just like that?" His eyes roll and I notice the makeup around his mouth, in particular, the ruby-red-hooker-shade, has faded from all the licking. I always did find myself amused by that face, "Pu-leeeeease, girly. I've got a perfectly dandy little tool, what kind of ig-knee-oh-ramous let's something like that just…uhh—go?"

…are the walls around me neon orange?

This place is repulsive?

"Where the fuck am I?"

"My bachelor paaaaaad-uh." He enunciated the 'd' into a rough sound, and I cringe when I realize the ceiling is lime green, the shag carpeting is melon-shaded and the sheets are canary yellow.

"…Did hippies used to fucking live here?"

"Nothin' gets by you, toots!" His head falls back ,and he throws my glasses into my lap. With a sudden panic I realize that the Harlequin dress is hanging limply on a hideous, gnarled chair a few feet away, and I'm back in my ripped jeans and a worn Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band t-shirt. My distressed thought is—

Did he change me?

Oh fucking God.

Without warning, I find that a hand crushes me against the wall, nearly shattering my shoulder and I try to inhale but the breath is literally sucked out of my mouth. My spine throbs with the vengeance of a thousand enraged bruises and I gasp for air with a sudden slap and a "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, CLEVELAND?!"

He backs off, almost in one movement. He's too vicious and quick and hard and hot and now I've got his makeup all over my face.

I heave for breaths, frightened and jumpy out of my head, and he twitches almost uncertainly. Those puppy-dog eyes are things I can never shy from, and he just mutters, "You…uh—you uh—you…got some lipstick on uh..."

I wipe at it, hasty and repulsed, suddenly, and he purrs with a subtle satisfaction. Before I know it, he's laughing hysterically and wandering away from the bed. With morbidly amused fascination, I notice that he's wearing boxers patterned with tiny, clever Batman insignias. He's drawn, with a poorly-done sharpie, little, round black circles that look like eyes and tiny red ellipticals that look like mouths all over them.

I morbidly just remind myself that, for what feels like the sixth time this week, I've been molested by a transvestite with a sense of humor.

And with a dread in the pit of my stomach that I'll spend the rest of my life with this man, I realize the worst sound is emanating from another room—

You called me from the room in your hotel. All full of romance for someone that you met. And telling me how sorry you were, leaving so soon, and that you miss me sometimes when you're alone in your room. Do I feel lonely too?

My eyes roll, and the horror floods back to me in seconds, along with Cleveland's loud, obnoxiously nasal tone.

Phil Collins.