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Murderface woke with a thought half-formed in his mind. Having thoughts, even half-formed ones, was not a sensation he was used to, and it made him profoundly uncomfortable.
Just as one who is plagued by a massive zit on their shoulder blade must eventually try to pop it, despite knowing that it will probably make the situation worse, Murderface found himself obligated to pick at the thought, to try and squeeze coherence from it. And just as one fiddling with a massive back zit might find themselves extracting a globby core of pus, Murderface managed to extract an equally disgusting truth from his throbbing welt of a thought.
He was lonely.
“Heyyy, Toki! What’sch up? I figured I’d let you tag along with me today, maybe we could pal around schome…”
Toki was bent over his desk. The light from his magnifying lens illuminated the planes of his face from below, like a kid about to launch into a crappy ghost story. He didn’t look up.
“Shh. Ams concenkratings.”
This was not the response Murderface wanted, but he decided to be generous and excuse Toki’s lapse of politeness. He invited himself into the room and sauntered over to Toki’s desk.
Sheets bristling with miniature, molded plastic shapes were spread out across the work surface. Toki had selected one and was examining it, turning it this way and that, occasionally pausing to dab a bit of silver paint onto one of the delicate pieces. His tongue poked out from between his lips, drifting from side to side as he worked in a way that reminded Murderface of how Toki would tilt his controller back and forth during Mario Kart.
“What’scha up to here?”
“Makings a planes. Don’ts touch anyt’ing.”
“Schure, schure.”
Murderface leaned up against the edge of the desk. He considered the leaflet, dense with text and diagrams, that the rhythm guitarist had cast off to the side. He picked it up, turned it over. He opened it to a new page, then closed it again. He flipped it to what might be right-side-up, reconsidered, and reconsidered again. He tossed it back onto the desk, where it slipped to the floor.
“Scho…”
He groped about in his mind for a topic that related to Toki’s current activity.
“You ever think about Cshivil War aviation?”
“Dere wasn’ts planes backs den.”
“No, but there wasch hot air baloonsch! They usched ‘em for reconnaisschannshe.”
“Huh, dat’s pretty cools.”
“Ischn’t it?” As he warmed to his topic, Murderface gestured excitedly. “They couldn’t control them, scho you’ve juscht got a guy tethered to the ground a hundred feet in the air with hisch schpyglass, watching the enemy.”
“Huh, dat’s pretty cools.”
“Nobody did any schniping from up there, but I would have!” He mimed peering down the sights of a rifle. “I woulda been like ‘I schee you, General Grant,’ kaBOOM, pink mischt!”
“Huh, dat’s pretty cools.”
Murderface frowned. He wasn’t sure Toki was paying attention at all.
He decided to change tack.
“Here, lemme juscht help you with that…”
He grabbed one of the little plastic sheet things and started detaching the tiny plastic bits from their frame. It was hard to get a grip on them with his thick fingers, but he persevered. As he liberated each one, he assembled them into a small pile on the periphery of Toki’s workspace.
It was kind of nice, actually.
Meditative.
He could see why Toki liked this shit.
They worked together in silence for a while, accompanied only by the soft, satisfying snaps made by pieces of plastic parting ways.
As Murderface neared the end of his task, Toki glanced up from the paintjob he had been applying to a section of landing gear and saw Murderface’s progress.
Toki howled in dismay and fury.
“MOIDAFACE! WHATS DID YOU DOES???”
“I’m helping! I thought I’d schpeed up the procshesch for you!”
“DEYS ALL OUTS OF ORDERS NOW!”
“Well, I--”
“I DIDN’TS GETS A CHANCE TO PAINTS DEM YET!!”
“Okay, but--”
“GETS! OUTS!!!”
Sometimes, there’s just no talking to that guy, Murderface reflected as he made a dignified and completely voluntary exit.
“Can you believe Toki? Goofing off in hisch room, playing with hisch toy airplanesch. Never practicshesch. Never jamsch with hisch palsch. Not like usch, eh, Schkwischgaar?”
“Don’ts you t’ink you are, heeugh, gettinks stonesd in de glass house?”
“I literally have no idea what you’re trying to schay.”
Skwisgaar lounged on the edge of his bed, fingers picking out swift arpeggios along the neck of his Explorer. Murderface moved to sit beside him. Without missing a fret, Skwisgaar hitched one long leg onto the mattress and stretched, blocking Murderface out.
Murderface, put out but not put off, curled his hand and tapped his knuckles against Skwisgaar’s knee in a clumsy approximation of a fistbump.
Skwisgaar said nothing. The only sound in the cavernous white room was the staccato plinks of unamplified strings.
Murederface shifted uncomfortably.
“Scho, anyway, wanna jam?”
“Uh. Noes, not reallies.”
Murderface, seeming not to hear, motioned for a klokateer, who had up to this point been lingering politely just outside the doorway holding a bass and amp, to come forward. He grabbed his bass from them and indicated that they were to set down the amp and leave.
Skwisgaar caught the klokateer’s eye and frowned. The klokateer picked the amp back up.
Murderface, who had started to pluck at the strings and fiddle with the knobs, looked up and noticed the amp still in the klokateer’s arms.
“Juscht put that down anywhere.”
The klokateer glanced at Skwisgaar.
Skwisgaar shook his head.
The klokateer kept hold of the amp. Another appeared in the doorway.
“Do you require assistance setting up your amplifier, my lord?”
“I don’ts t’inks dats’ll be neskeskary.”
Skwisgaar continued playing, unplugged but unremitting. Tinny riffs echoed off the walls. It was ridiculous, Murderface thought, that he could fill a space with sound without even being hooked into an amp.
Skwisgaar nodded to him.
“Okays, lets jam.”
“Oh, are we-?”
“Ja, go.”
“Wait, I--”
“Jumps in whenever.”
“Okay, but--”
“Ones twos t’ree go!”
Murderface’s fingers fumbled for the strings, but all he managed to produce were a few feeble, sour notes that curdled as soon as they hit the air.
Skwisgaar gave a small snort, and shot the klokateers a look. They bowed, unplugged the amp, and hurriedly backed through the door.
Murderface lingered only a moment longer, unplugged bass hanging uselessly.
“Great schesch, buddy,” he offered before retreating.
“H--”
“No.”
“You didn’t even let me schay anything!”
Nathan grumbled, but stomped the pedal labeled plasma screen. The motion spilled several of the chips from the bowl resting on his stomach. On the tv above, an unmoving flashlight flickered in a shadowy room.
“Fine. What?”
“Juscht, ya know, scheeing if you wanted to pal around?”
“No.”
Nathan stamped the pedal again and retrieved one of the fallen chips from the couch cushions next to him. On screen, an actor sniffed audibly and cast about in the darkness.
“Why not?”
Nathan didn’t bother to pause this time. He raised his voice over the tense music as the flashlight’s beam illuminated rows upon rows of spaghetti sauce cans.
“Because I’m having Murder Mystery Movie Me Time. It’s not ‘me time’ if you’re here bugging me, and it won’t be a mystery anymore when you ruin the ending.”
“I’m not going to ruin it! I--”
“You told me Bruce Willis was dead last month! You’re not fucking this up for me.”
“Don’t I have a right to watch moviesch? I’m schorry, I thought this wasch America!” Murderface took a deep breath, preparing to launch into a rousing speech about the freedoms allowed one in their grand country, and the virtues of the great art form of cinema, but Nathan preempted him.
“Ok, fine, fine, fine, sit down. Just fucking shut up, ok?”
Murderface plopped down on the couch beside Nathan. He reached for the chip bowl. Nathan slapped his hand away.
“Scho what’sch going on here?”
“Shhhh,” Nathan hissed.
“Oh, hey, it’sch that guy!”
“SSSHHHHH.”
“That guy, uh… Edward Norton! What’sch he doing?”
“SSSSSHHHHHHHH!” Nathan swatted a hand in the air between them. “It’s Brad Pitt, dumbass.”
Murderface tried for the chips again and received another smack for his efforts.
“Well, what’sch wrong with that big fat guy?”
“He got murdered, Murderface. Be. Quiet.”
Murderface either did not hear, or heard and did not care.
“Hey, that’sch Morgan Freeman!”
“Murderfac…”
“Wait, I remember thisch! Morgan Freeman knowsch that Edward Norton’sch wife’sch head isch in the box!”
Nathan turned to Murderface, livid.
“What box? Godammit, Murderface, is that how it ends? Is Brad Pitt’s wife’s head in a box?”
Murderface decided that perhaps he would let Nathan enjoy the rest of the movie by himself.
“Oh, hey, dood! C’mahn in.”
Pickles was sprawled out on the floor next to his bed. Smoke hung heavy in the warm air. He patted the spot next to him. Murderface sat.
“What’scha up to?”
“Ya know a moke? When ya put some tebacco in the bahng? Well, this heere’s a Pickles moke. A Poke! It’s tebacco extrahct and daebs. and. Vahdka.”
“Wait, how doesch the vodka play into it?”
“Eeh, I’m still werking on thet pahrt.”
Pickles took a hit off the rig, winced, and took a shot off the vodka bottle.
“Wahnt some?”
Murderface nodded and Pickles set up the rig for another hit. He offered it to Murderface, who took the… Poke.
It was harsh. So harsh. He coughed in surprise and gave his chest a smack with his fist.
“Heere, have some’a this.”
Murderface fumbled for the proffered bottle and gulped from it. The vodka burned, but it helped smooth out the coughing.
“Maybe the vahdka does play inta it aft’r all, huh?” mused Pickles, retrieving the bottle from Murderface and taking a slug for himself.
Murderface laughed and wiped his streaming eyes.
“So, whet’dya need?”
The question caught Murderface off guard. He’d forgotten that he was the one who had sought Pickles out, rather than being invited over.
He also hadn’t really planned on getting this far.
He decided to push his luck.
“Oh, I wasch juscht in the schtudio, working on schome new riffsch, trying schome schtuff out…”
Pickles arched a dubious eyebrow.
“But I wasch juscht having scho mucsh trouble concshentrating…” He placed a hand on the small of his back and wiggled theatrically. “Schee, my back hasch thisch weird kink in it, and ugh…” He rolled his neck in an exaggerated stretch.
“Okeey, okeey. Git over heere.”
Murderface was surprised at having his performance interrupted; it usually took at least half an hour of whining to get Pickles to rub his back for him.
“Wait, really?”
“Yeeah, turn around!” He twirled the nearly empty vodka bottle indulgently.
Murderface shed his vest and scooted into place in front of Pickles before the drummer changed his mind. Behind him, Pickles tossed the bottle aside and cracked his knuckles one by one, giving each finger due diligence. Murderface listened and waited for the final pops that signalled Pickles was about to begin.
Pickles laid his hands on Murderface’s shoulders and began working the heels of his palms in lazy circles.
At first, Murderface was always hyperaware of the way his breaths made his ribcage rise and fall beneath Pickles’ hands. Having his attention drawn to his own breathing made the act itself oddly difficult, and he struggled to forget that he was aware of it so that it would go back to operating without his oversight, as he himself was having trouble remembering how many breaths was a normal amount to take in how many seconds.
Pickles’ thumb dug into the knob of his shoulder and he inhaled sharply.
“Sahrry dood, too hard?”
“Nah, ‘sch all good.”
Murderface remained still as Pickles kneaded the flesh on either side of his spine. He felt Pickles fingers working down to the small of his back. Murderface swallowed. He felt a little lightheaded.
As Pickles’ knuckles ground against his hip bones, Murderface leaned into the hands. He felt his shoulders press against Pickles’ thin chest. He considered that he might be about to suffocate. He seemed to be having trouble drawing air into his lungs.
Pickles rested his chin on Murderface’s shoulder. Murderface felt his hot breath against his cheek, rank with tobacco and liquor and weed.
Murderface’s limbs buzzed with the same tension he used to feel when he was a kid and would take the trash out on a summer night after dinner, and there would be some raccoons scavenging in the bins, and they would scuttle around in the warm evening dim, and he would slowly approach with some leftovers he had fished out of the bag just for them, and he would place the food on the ground and back away, and he would sit very still and watch in wonder as they ate, and he would keep doing it every night, and they would get closer and closer until one particularly bold raccoon would be eating straight from his palm, and it would be amazing to feel its clever little hands grabbing the food, and he would look straight into its sweet, dark eyes, and in the next moment the raccoon would be startled by a passing car and bite him, and his grandma would have to take him to the emergency room to get a rabies shot, but the raccoon hadn’t bitten him yet, it was still the moment before that, and time seemed to stretch out forever. That sort of tension.
“Oucsh!” His reverie had been interrupted by a sharp pinch. “What the fuck?!”
“Sahrry, couldn’t rehsist. Ya gat this maessive zit on yer back! Check it out.”
Murderface turned, and Pickles presented his thumbnail for examination. A fat little glob of pus balanced on the edge.
“That schtung!” he marvelled, as Pickles wiped the gooball off on his bedsheets.
“Look, I’ll let ya get me back. I’ve gaht a reeal huge one ahn my neck, I can jest feel it.”
Pickles clambered over Murderface and settled in front of him, pulling his dreads to the side.
Murderface hesitated for a moment. He stared at Pickles’ freckled skin. The pimple in question looked as if it would burst as soon as it was touched, a circle of inflamed red flesh throbbing against the shiny white head.
“Go ahn,” Pickles urged.
Murderface rested a hand on each side of Pickles’ collar, lined up his stubby fingernails.
He took a breath.
And he squeezed.