✌ ic contact;

[dies_at_the_end]

☎ voicemail ☎ text message ☞ action ☣ whatevs

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[dies_at_the_end]

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

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

[bratwurstcalling]

[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...?

[dies_at_the_end]

[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.]

[bratwurstcalling]

Gaylord it is.

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

What now?

[dies_at_the_end]

No idea.

[The worst thing about being dead from John's perspective was waking up with the vague, spectral taste of dog hair in his mouth, but what can you do.]

I guess we stick around til someone asks us to blow something up.

[bratwurstcalling]

Yeah, good deal.

[Wait until they get to blow something up, and maybe get a little blackout drunk in the meantime. But first, sleep. Sleep forever. Dying was exhausting and with the way he was feeling, Dave was pretty sure he'd pass out the minute his head hit a pillow. Even Gaylord's looming body couldn't keep him awake at this point.]

[dies_at_the_end]

[Oh, getting blackout drunk as soon and as often as possible is definitely on John's to-do list, which to be honest, rarely has anything else on it.]

Yup.

[He elbows Dave in the ribs relatively lightly and gets up, because well, it's not like he is actually gonna sleep.]

[bratwurstcalling]

[There's literally only a grunt in response, and then Dave flops over onto the now vacated couch. Sanctuary.]

Wake me up next year...

[dies_at_the_end]

Mmmn.

[Whatevs, Dave. Smell ya later.]