dies_at_the_end | ✌ ic contact;

Stop making sense.

[John just makes an annoyed grumbling noise, because actually yeah he doesn't want to be the voice of reason here. Let's not get crazy.]

[Dave shares the sentiment, because a world where John makes sense is a world he doesn't want to live in. Shame on John.]

Someone listed some places on this network thing, I think one's not too far from here.

[That's a good rule of thumb. The sad thing is John makes sense far too frequently, when their fucked-up world bends to his logic.]

What, places to crash?

[Not places for a fucking burrito.

He's never letting that go. It's insult on top of injury.]

Yeah.

[Screw the burrito, John. Dave is in no mood. He's been brought back from the dead and feels like he's still dead.]

[Look at the bright side, Dave: technically you've been dead for ages, now you've just caught up. Or something.]

'Kay.

[That's... really unfortunate. Don't remind him.

It's also unfortunate that Dave settles on some place for them to stay and hashes it out with whoever's in charge there in order to give them a room in just this one paragraph.

It's not a nice place, in fact it's kind of shitty. Embarassingly so. But when Dave pushes open the front door the absolute last thing he expected to see was a wig monster reclined on the sofa.

Not cool.]

[Possibly it's better to conveniently gloss over that kind of arrangement in narration, because who knows what kind of shit John will stir up otherwise.

He doesn't flinch at the shittiness of the place; it's not like either of them are gonna win housekeeper of the year or anything, he's dealt with way worse. He just raises an eyebrow at the wig monster.]

Is that there? [Just because they're not usually hallucinations doesn't mean this one might not be. Always good to check.] Shit, they have those things here, too?

[He's pretty sure it's there. He's also pretty sure that thing's gross little baby hands are going to try to touch him while he's sleeping tonight. Sick.]

You don't think it knew we were coming, right?

[I mean look at that thing. It's sitting there the way some Bond villain would be sitting there except instead of stroking a cat it's twitching and being generally gross.]

[If they'd found burritos the fucking thing would probably have shown up sooner. Actually, come to think of it...

John squints at the thing for a long moment, studying its crooked, unnaturally auburn wig, the exact warped shape of its awkward limbs.]

Is that the same one? Fuck, it's totally the same one.

[John gets squinted at for a moment.]

Did it follow you here?

[Wow. It's like their very own pet.

Gross.]

How can you even tell?

Followed me? It probably followed you. It always liked you, I bet it can smell you.

[Scowling.]

Just look at it, look at the hair. It's totally the same one.

You're the one that fed it!

[Okay, yeah, it definitely looks like the same one. Dave just... doesn't like the way it's looking at him.]

It's not sharing a bed with us-- Maybe with you. Not with me.

What us?

[You're not getting in his bed either, sorry Dave. John kind of wants to kick the thing, but the memory of it biting through his shoe is vivid enough to cut through his usual haze of bad ideas.]

Hey! You! Thing! [He barks at it, glowering. A handful of its eyes turn toward him.]

Get off the couch!

[Aside from some possibly unrelated chittering, it doesn't respond.]

[Hey, fuck you, John, Dave scored the place for the night- you can't claim the bed.

Dave winces as John yells at the wig monster, because who knows how that thing'll react.]

It probably doesn't like you calling it Thing...

[A beat.]

We should name it.

[Face it, Dave, you'll probably pass out faceplanted on the couch either way. And if not, it's not like John really sleeps, anyway.]

Okay.

[That seems like a reasonable course of action, actually.]

What do you think? Samantha? Peter? Gaylord McAsscock?

[Choices. Dave gives the thing a nice long stare before coming to a decision.]

Iiiii don't know. Gaylord has a nice ring to it, but I'm thinking something more regal.

Gaylord's got lord in it.

[Also, gay. Insert joke about you, Dave.]

Make him the Third or something, that's classy.

What about Ludwig?

[He thought really hard about it okay. Also puns are funny. No they're not.]

[You get an eyeroll for your troubles. Fuck you, Dave, no one likes your jokes.]

Gaylord Ludwig the Third.

[Lacking a little something.]

Like a dog, but horrible and probably going to kill us in our sleep.

This is a shittier concept than Marmaduke.

[A beat.]

Gaylord Ludwig Marmaduke.

...the Third.

[He nods gravely. Yes, that's perfect.]

Gaylord Ludwig Marmaduke the Third, [he intones in a deep, serious voice,] get. off. the fucking. couch.

[Holy fucking shit it worked. The thing skitters up the wall. This pleases Dave, but at the same time terrifies him. I'll probably poop on him in his sleep.]

Did that actually just happen...?

[If you're lucky that will be all it does to you in your sleep, Dave. There but for the grace of whatever governs turning into a monster...]

I guess it approves. [He? Does it even actually matter?

John flops on the vacated couch.]

Gaylord it is.

[He flops on the couch beside John. His stomach is still churning. Fuck, dying sucks.]

What now?

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