Chapter Text
It was a cold-ass morning. Mitch didn't wanna be outside at the very moment but this task was one of great necessity. They were outta beer. Javier was still asleep and it took him nine damn hours to priss himself up. Cliff never gave Mitch back his change.
And Scratch.
Well.
One of a solid twenty things could happen with her and not a single onea those involved beer showin’ the fuck up. So Mitch had been practically forced outta his safe, warm bed and out into the elements.
Cuz he needed some fuckin’ beer. And there was a big ol’ Budweiser ad on the convenience store he was walking to.
Mitch swung open the door to ‘Calm n’ Slam’ and Mitch would be an idiot not to laugh at the idiot who thought up that damn name every time he walked under the yellow and green sign.
The overpowered fan above the door that greeted Mitch as soon as he walked in plastered his hair down on his forehead for a second. The store’s insides had that gross green-y film on it that came in the ‘ old as dirt LEDs’ package . The short, balding guy behind the counter, Rob, was loudly smacking on some gum. Probably nicotine. That’d last an entire week.
Mitch stomped over to the fridges at the back of the store, weaving past candy bar stands and the ice cream freezer at the center of the store. He walked to the beer almost out of habit, glancing around for the lowest number and snagging two six packs of ‘em. Mitch’s shoulder bumped the glass door, smearing the condensation.
He always used to draw dicks on the insides a those when he was a kid.
And an adult.
But he didn't have time. At the moment he wanted to get back into his warm room.
Both his bones and jeans weren’t built for this damned polar bear weather. Plus Mitch hadn’t bothered with digging out his hoodie that was… somewhere in the shit show of his room.
Probably.
Not like he had the answers to the universe or some shit. So his ‘Fucks Given 00’ jersey was on full display for good ol’ Rob when Mitch dumped his beer on the counter. And also snagged a couple little bags of Doritos that were shelved against the checkout counter. Only the sad man in the yellow polo wasn’t mindlessly ringing him up without asking for his ID. Although, the man hadn’t asked Mitch for his ID when he was fourteen and looked like he was twenty. Fuck knows why he’d do it when he was twenty-four and looked forty.
No, Rob was just staring at him. His baggy eyes were wide and his comb-over looked like it spiked up. And his mouth was open instead of chewin’ on that gum like his life depended on it.
Mitch narrowed his eyes and sneered, turning up his chin a bit.
“The fuck you lookin’ at?”
The only thing that answered him was the annoying fan when somebody else walked in.
That seemed to snap Rob out of his trance and he had Mitch rung up in no time. Mitch dropped his money on the old knicked counter with lotto ads stickered to it and Rob scrambled to scrape them up and basically threw the change at Mitch’s forehead.
Mitch walked outta the store with bagged beers n’ chips and a frown.
Cuz what the fuck?
He was back on Sellwood sidewalk and it was usually a kinda long, only somewhat pain in the ass of a walk back to home sweet home at Park N’ Wreck.
But not today it seemed.
Because ohh did life have a fun time fucking with Mitch. And not even in the fun way.
He kept gettin’ looks. And not the usual ‘Run! It’s the human porta potty! Only shit comes out!’ or what somebody must’ve looked like when they realized they were about to get run over by a train.
These looks were looks of… admonishment? Like bein’ amazed or whatever? He's walk by and people would follow him with their eyes. Mutter shit. Lookin' at their damn phone and just what even?!
“Congratulations!” One random-ass lady said to him as he walked past her.
Mitch was trippin' the hell out.
Was he still high?
➡➡➡
The creaky door to Mitch’s trailer slammed behind him as Mitch stormed inside and instantly dropped the white plastic bag he’d been carrying onto one section of the counter that wasn’t covered in dishes. He spun around and--
Javier was still on the sofa, snoring and black lipstick all smeared. With the local news yapping at him.
But Cliff and Scratch? The conscious friends? Poof! Not a trace.
Mitch made this weird, annoyed noise that resulted from sucking on his tongue between his teeth before stomping back to the door, it creaked open and shouted:
“SCRATCH!! CLIFF!! C’MON YA CHICKEN FUCKERS!”
The sad thing about that description was that it was true. In two very different ways but still.
“SHUT IT MULLER!” somebody--probably Mr. Genins, old bastard hated when people yelled cuz it messed up his NSA interference satellites--shouted back.
Mitch flipped a one-size-fits-all birdie to his neighbors outside before slipping back into his living room. He ran a hand over his face and tilted his neck, feeling it crack.
He didn’t remember last night at all but apparently he did something. A nasally new anchor’s voice followed after Mitch as he walked into his room--but only after remembering to snag a bag of Doritos.
‘Local man wins millions… truth or hoax?’
Mitch swung the door to his room open to see phone vibrating at its spot on his bedside ‘table’. It was mostly duct tape by now.
And when he said vibrating he meant vibrating like the kinda butt plugs he couldn’t afford.
It was probably just on the fritz after Scratch’s recent attempt to microwave it again. The weird thing about that was the reason why Scratch had failed the first couple times.
Mitch had only just tossed the bag of chips for Buddy to tear up and snack on when the door creaked. Honestly, Mitch didn’t need to fix the doorbell when that damn thing could wake the dead.
“Ohhohooh! Javi’s still asleep! Wakey waaakey!”
Mitch left his possessed phone untouched as he walked back into the other room. He was doing so much walking for a… a Sunday? No? Yes? Shit?
Saturday. It. Was Saturday.
Tomorrow was Sunday.
He was half right.
There was a small psst as Cliff just helped his dip-pissin’ self to one a Mitch’s beers.
“The fuck happened last night?” Mitch asked as he walked past Cliff to the empty chair by the sofa. Scratch was perched up on one of the arms of the couch, poking at Javier’s face.
“A dog with his tail in one ear n’ out the other’d have better luck ‘memberin.”
Mitch wasn’t even gonna fucking respond to that.
He’d killed enough brain cells over the years as it was.
But luckily Javier decided to come back from the dead for a minute.
“Fuuuuuuucckkkk…” Javier groaned out slowly, he sat up on the sofa his face so scrunched up his makeup almost looked straight.
With Javier now most definitely not dead Scratch hopped off the arm of the sofa to do something more fun, like maybe try to make a flamethrower outta the hairdryer again.
Now that had been fuckin’ funny. ‘Specially when she’d singed Cliff’s eyebrows off.
“What happened last night?” Mitch said again, stretching one of his legs over the arm of his chair and kicking at Javier, who was holding his head and still groaning.
“How the hell should I know?” Javier said, “After we got back to the park I must’a blacked the fuck out.”
“Back from where?” Mitch asked, his eyes slid over to the tv as he waited or Javier to respond with something that wasn’t sounds of agony.
“Uh--you bought one of those damn tickets,” Javier grunted, he opened his eyes and they were red and he looked like shit, “I’ve gotta take a fuckin’ shower,” he complained. Mitch just grunted.
Javier wobbled more than a little bit as he headed in the general direction of the bathroom. Yeah, there were a couple walls between him and there, but that wasn’t a big deal.
So it was just him and Cliff, who was silently drinking from where he was leaning against the counter in the kitchen.
Mitch actually focused on the tv. It was still the damn news for fuck knew why and Mitch sat up in his seat, craning his head around the room looking for the remote.
“Will the groundbreaking six-hundred-ninety-million prize ever be claimed? The only proof we have that the winning ticket is indeed out there is a viral photo of a ma..amahn...naoopphgm...mahehejmb...ngoonhjj…”
Mitch stopped listening to the tv and stopped looking for a way to change the channel. He just laid his head back in the chair and groaned for no particular reason other than being boooored.
➡➡➡
“MITCH!! MITCH!! M-I-T-C-H!! MIT-MIT-MIT-MITCH! MIMMIMIMMIMIMITCHCCCHH!”
Mitch cracked open one eye and the first thing he saw was an upside down version of Scratch’s disorienting and pierced face grinning down a rain of terror on him.
And… yikes. Was this how he was gonna die.
“Mitch! You gotta wake up fuckhead!”
Mitch’s head snapped up at that. Only to see a repainted Javier and hollow-inside looking cliff standing in front of him.
They all looked… happy.
Did they find the weed he stored in that fake urn? Cuz he didn’t really have a great-aunt named Charletta.
“The fuck do you want?” Mitch groaned, in response Mitch found his own smashed up phone shoved into his face.
It wasn’t vibrating but there was something up with it.
Mitch squinted, making the bright screen clearer and took it outta Scratch’s hand--it had come from above-- and gave the cracked screen a good look.
He had.
Two hundred and eleven missed calls.
And one hundred and seven texts.
“It stopped when you finally ran outta minutes dude,” Javier said.
Mitch scowled at his phone and stood up in the chair.
“What the hell?” he growled, he swiped his phone open and scrolled through the call log.
There were just lotsss a numbers and the name of a random-ass cousin here or there that he had keyed into his phone for some fucking reason.
“Who the fuck are these people?”
“Old friends, lookin’ to cash out,” Javier said, leaning over to stare at the screen alongside Cliff and Scratch.
They all looked down at Mitch’s beat up phone as he went through the messages from so many goddamn people.
[MIIITCHYYY! Is ur cuzin Len!!]
[Marlice here! Henrietta’s old cell mate! She said I should call you up sweetheart]
[hey boy its jud. wanted to check in been a few years. Hws ur mom?]
[MIIIITCH! CONGRATS! Its Magan from Sellwood, rmbr?]
“What the everlovin’ fuck?!?”
Mitch held his phone away from him like it was gonna bite him.
“What HAPPENED last night?” Mitch yelled, looking at his friends.
“You WON THE LOTTERY!!!” Scratch wooted, starting to bounce around the living room.
Mitch shook his head and looked over at Javier, “Did I kill somebody or somethin’? Some bitch ass pig?”
“Mitch,” Javier said, placing a hand gently on his shoulder, trying to look serious even with fuckin’ clown makeup on, “You won the lottery.”
“Pfft,” Mitch laughed out, “Shut up already and tell me what the hell happened.”
“He’s right,” Cliff said on Mitch’s other side, “Even got pho-to-migraphic evidence.”
Then Cliff held up his own phone in front of Mitch.
Mitch saw the blurry-around-the-edges-image of his own face up close to the camera. He looked soooo wasted with his eyes goin’ off into space and his tongue half out. And shoved up close to the lense was yellow and white ticket with Mega Millions printed across the top of it.
The numbers read… “69 60 39 06 09…”..........
➡➡➡ The Night Before
Mitch couldn’t stop laughing as he practically fell through the convenience store doors, with Cliff almost knocking over the tiny greeting card stand in front of him, Javier falling over himself behind him and Scratch trying to climb through the window.
“Rooobbbb…!” Mitch slurred out, “I wann--wan...fuck.--Wanna buy one a’em tickets!”
Mitch tried to keep his eyes focused on the counter as he stumbled forward. He hit the counter with the crackling sounds of the little chips bagson the side of it. Mitch propped his elbows on the countertop and basically used that to hold himself up at his feet slipped and did whatever the fuck they wanted.
“Waanna pick de’ numbers too… they gotta be--ya listening? They gotta be--sixty- pffttt!”
Mitch put one of his hands over his mouth and he felt something hit his shoulder. It was Cliff, leaning on him.
“The numbers aarrr’,” Mitch was still cracking up! “The numbers gotta be sixty nine--pfpfhh--sixty, thir-ty--n-nine! Yea that’s it. OH! An’ un oooh’six an’ oooh’nine.”
Mitch smiled at finally getting all the numbers out.
“What about the Mega Ball?”
Mitch frowned up at the cashier, “The fuck?”
“You need one more number, Muller.”
“Ooohhh. Fuck,” Mitch said. He rubbed his fingers into his temples and thought for a minute. What numbers did he like?
“Hey Cliff,” Mitch said, jerking his shoulder, Cliff grunted in response, “Pick a number, six or thirty?”
“Uhhhhhhh…..” Cliff said slowly, “Thhiiirrrty.”
“Thirty!” Mitch repeated back, grinning.
➡➡➡ Back to this God Awful Morning
And the ticket ended with the Mega Ball number of ‘30’.
There was a caption under the photo that read ‘winerwnner bitces’.
“What were the winning numbers?” Mitch asked.
Cliff tapped around on his phone and showed Mitch a chrome tab that listed them all out.
It was a match. Right down to the last number.
“Ho-ly… fuck…”