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Theres "gross stuff you might find in the refrigerator". Then there's "gross stuff you hope to never find in a refrigerator". The thing Flans is holding right now is in the second category, but he hasn't figured that out right yet.
He frowns, and thumbs his thick-framed glasses up his nose. The UFO, unidentified fridge object, is white-ish and spidery and vaguely squishy and still cold. He squeezes it between a large thumb and forefinger. It drips.
Moments later, he realizes what he's holding and nearly throws it across the room.
Linnell is tapping a rhythm on his now-empty coffee cup and counting beats when a wordless roar comes from the kitchen. He stops, in mid-tap. There's no crashing or swearing to follow the cry, so thats a good sign, and Flans sounded more angry than hurt, which is also a good sign. But he shouts anyways. "John, are you all right in there?"
Flans appears in the doorframe and leans up against it, with deceptive chill in his voice. "Oh, hey," he says, holding up something wrapped in pink-stained napkin that's as pale as his face. "Check out what I found in the fridge."
Linnell sees where the conversation is going and tries to skip to the end. "Sorry," he says.
Flans brandishes the object. "It's a HAND, John." he says.
"Sorry."
Flansburgh waves it and the fingers flop, limply. "A HUMAN hand, John. We've had this conversation before."
"I meant to dispose of it with the rest." John tries to explain, "I just-"
"Why were you keeping any of a body in our fridge?" Flans almost shouts, his already high voice cracking upwards with frustration. Then he remembers to keep his voice down, and speaks again. "What the hell, man, I thought you were getting better about this. You haven't had an incident in like a year."
"Yeah." Linnell says thoughtfully, looking at his hands. "It had been a... while."
Flans puffs out an exasperated breath and begins to pace. His black shoes clomp on the floorboards as he talks. "Jesus. Okay. Who was it? We haven't had any, you know, disastrous interviews recently. And we agreed, no TV hosts, no matter how awful. Okay, wait, was it that what's-their-name who did the little column about how Dial-A-Song was a 'sign of our creative desperation'?"
"They called us gimmicky!" Linnell complains.
"Gimmicky." Flans grumbles for a moment, and then remembers he's still yelling ay Linnell. "John, I'm sure it wasn't worth it. Do I have to make a 'no columnists' rule, too?"
"It wasn't them." Linnell says.
"What?"
"That's not the columnist's." John pauses for a moment before saying, "It was the woman from the radio interview last week."
Flansburgh nearly puts his hands to his face, before he realizes he's still holding the cold dead hand in his. He grimaces and speaks. "Jesus Christ. I liked her. She gave me her number and I didn't even mind."
"She gave me her number, too." Linnell says. Flans groans.
"Goddammit, I just want to have ONE interview where I'm not wondering the whole time if I'm going to find the interviewer's head in the bathtub tomorrow! I mean, it's kind of stressful! Listen, John, I love ya. But you can't keep this up. It's- well, it's gross, and highly illegal, and I pay half the rent. Who cleans up all the blood when you're done having a moment?"
"I do, actually." John points out.
"...okay yeah. Well, who has to deal with all the body parts, huh?"
"I do that, too." John says.
Flans drops the hand without a word. It plops into the empty coffee cup between them.
"I could move out." John finally says. "I get that I'm a... liability, sort of. Now that we're actually earning something through the band, on top of my job, I could find another place. I'm always trying to get better, but in the meantime I don't want to do anything that could get you in trouble."
Flans is taken back by his idea. The first thing he wonders is if their songwriting would suffer, if they lived apart. Then he wonders if he could find another roommate. Then he wonders just how much he'd miss being with John every day. Then, his mind finally comes around to the issue at hand. Which one is worse? Living in the same apartment as your strange bandmate with occasional homocidal tendencies? Or having no idea what your strange bandmate with occasional homocidal tendencies was up to? Sharing their apartment was Flansy's idea originally, even once he found out about John's un-musical...hobbies.
"You could-" Flans says, "start by killing less people." He laughs, trying to cheer John up a bit. The last thing he needs is a Linnell in a baby blue funk. "Really, I don't mind you staying here. Just, less corpse pieces in the butter, okay? Hey, if you get rid of this one now we can check out that weird new Thai place that moved in down the street." He pulls a big grin, probably showing more teeth than he means to.
He's rewarded when Linnell's mouth pulls up into a small and lopsided smile. "Well okay". Linnell agrees with him. He gingerly picks up the hand in his coffee by one bone-pale finger. Flans watches him shuffle into the kitchen holding the macabre prize, and then, a couple of seconds later, com out with it in a brown paper bag.
"I'll be right back." Linnell tells him, and then steps out of the door.
When the door closes behind Linnell, Flans feels his face relax into a more natural smile. Sometimes, he almost thinks that John is trying to show affection with his gross little tokens, like the big furry cat Flansy had as a kid, the one that left an eviscerated mouse on his pillow that one time. There's a weird overlap, in owning a cat and living with Linnell. It's almost cute. It's way disturbing, but almost cute.
Flans toys with the idea of just calling the police on Linnell and having it all over with, once and for all. He knows that he won't though. Whatever else he is, John is a damn good songwriter and a fine friend. Flansy would never betray him like that, or betray the band like that. And also, a little part of him thinks that maybe this is how Linnell gets those weird muselike bursts of inspiration.
Flansburgh walks in a discomfited circle around the room,and then notices the pink-stained napkin still in the coffee cup. He throws the napkin in the trash and rinses the cup in the sink. He opens the fridge again. But nope, his appetite is definitely ruined now. He closes it. Across the kitchen, a large blade sits on the countertop. Flans walks over to it. He lifts it, feels its weight. You know, maybe this is where Linnell gets his inspirations. What they say about madness and genius and everything. He holds it up to the light. It looks clean. He does a test stab in the air.
Then, he laughs, and drops it to clatter back down on the countertop. One psycho per band, please.
The hand is moldering in a shady Brooklyn dumpster. Sub-par pad thai is digesting in the stomachs of two men named John, sleeping in their beds in a run-down apartment several blocks away. John is dreaming. So is John, restlessly.
It's normal that people you see everyday show up in your dreams. But tonight Linnell is in Flans' dreams for reasons less innocent or enjoyable than usual. Tonight is a nightmare. He will blame it on the bad pad thai when he wakes up. Even though he knows better than that.
His dream goes like this:
he is in bed. and John is sitting on his chest and holding a straight razor. and explaining, patiently, that he's very sorry.
it's just that it's time to break up the band, John, it's time. he's really sorry to see him go. it's been the most fun he's ever had! and he wants to thank him for that. but now it's got to end, John, and he can't leave any loose ends knowing a little too much about his hobbies.
John is (Linnell explains in his voice that always makes it sound like he's giving a book report) going to slit his throat.
he's so sorry.
"Now then, wait a minute, c'mon, please, listen, it's me, it's Flans, it's me Flans, please, why have we got to split up the band anyways? Why? Come on, listen, it's me, good ol' Flans, ol' Flansy-flans, please, oh god please John PLEASE listen wait wait wait wait wait wait wait wait PLEASE"
(They made up rules to keep Linnell out of trouble. There is a "no TV hosts" rule and a "no DJs" rule and a new "no newspaper columnists" rule and even a "no fans" rule that Linnell made himself, but Flans never made him agree to a "no band members" rule because it seemed like tempting fate. He might reconsider. Maybe.)
so sorry, this may get messy. but I'll miss you, John.
"JOHN PLEASE"
he is in bed. and he cannot escape as the blade flashes. and he cannot escape as his blood soaks warmly into the sheets.
He thrashes a bit. The sheets are soaked in sweat.
he thrashes
He becomes so tangled up in his sheets that half his brain wakes up, not all, but enough to reassure him that his blood is where it belongs in his body, and his bandmate is where he belongs in his separate bed. Bad nightmare. Too real. He rolls over, and keeps one eye open to focus on John's faraway slowly breathing silhouette.
John is also dreaming, but Flans isn't in his dream at all. It's funny, how things work that way.
His dream goes like this:
he is in a boundless desert. and he stands in front of a massive door. and if he could only remember the right tune to play, the door would swing open for him.
but either his brain or his accordion won't work because he can't get it right. he fails. he fails. he fails. he fails, but he likes the way that one came out so he does it again.
and what do you think? he asks the glum-looking frog sitting near his shoe.
it ribbits. then it says, "Gimmicky."
he sighs.