Chapter Text
H. Shoe stood in front of the small duplex, shielding his eyes from the harsh glare of the ever-setting sun. The bright yellow, peeling “Benzedrine Clinic” sign towering over him.
Mr. Sandman tipped him off earlier that day. The doctor had been cooped there for days trying to perfect a new dosage of whatever sawdust-infused concoction it was that he took, and things didn’t seem too good. H. Shoe Crab rubs his hands over his face, dreading the inevitable conversation. The doctor had this nasty habit of thinking he was indestructible, and bitching at people who try to help.
He runs his hands against his handlebar, letting out a grumble. He opens the door, hearing the dingy chime of the silver door bell. The main room was empty and dark, blinds still closed. It was a miracle the doctor even forgot to lock the door. Hopping over the front counter and pushing through the saloon-style doors, H. Shoe finds himself in the clinical, organized lab. Or at least…usually organized. Looking around, paper was scattered everywhere, and his sunshine-yellow clad friend was slumped on a table.
“Hey, Doc. Are you awake..?” H. Shoe gingerly asks, dread and annoyance already growing sour in this throat. With a burst under his heap of paper, the chubby man abruptly sits up, the bright yellow plume that adorns his hat was bent and drooping, and his eyes were frantic.
“What. What?! What could you possibly want at this hour!”
“It’s just now dusk. How long have you been in here?”
“That doesn’t matter,” Dr. Benzedrine stands, frantically flailing and gesturing his hands around. “I’m hearing things. That…monochromatic bastard thinks he can pull a fast one on me! But I’m better than him. I know better. I just have to..have…to..”
His eyes droop shut for a second before snapping back awake.
“I’m fine.”
H. Shoe rolls his eyes. “If you work yourself any more, M–”
“–You gave him a nickname?”
“M hardly counts as a nickname, but yes.”
“Can’t you just call him ‘the other one’? He doesn’t need all…that.” Dr. Benzedrine gestures at H. Shoe Crab, implying that giving him even just a simple nickname beyond Mister or “the other one” as he so eloquently put it was almost gratuitous or socially gluttonous. Or whatever stupid excuse Dr. Benzedrine would give that he could use to dehumanize that part of him.
“That’s not the point, Doc. Mr. Benzedrine takes over when you do this. You work ‘til you’re exhausted, he takes over, and then I am stuck babysitting him! Do you know how annoying it is to get him to not eat random bullshit?!”
Dr. Benzedrine grimaces “well, you’re not doing a very good job. Do you know how annoying it is to wake up to the taste of..eugh,” he shudders “jellied eels?”
“Oh please, that’s the problem? Not the shot glass he ate? You’re more upset that he ate a real dish, just one that you don’t like? HE ATE GLASS, BENZ!”
“Well, I don’t care for jellied eels. They’re slimy. And bland, but so…horrid.” The doctor was kind of giggling at this point, aware he was being ridiculous.
H. Shoe sighs, peeking at a loose paper that had fallen to the ground during Doctor’s recent tirade, almost fondly thinking back to the last time he and the monochrome Benzedrine hung out. “Yeah, I just think he likes the taste of the vinegar the Fishmonger puts on them.”
“Fishmonger Deep?” Dr. Benzedrine asks, his smeared face twisted slightly
“Yeah. The one with that fake sea monster catching show. He’s the only guy in this city who makes food that Mister likes. Though he hates that Deep fakes his catches on the show.”
Dr. Benzedrine huffs, rubbing his face, smearing his makeup further, his eyes dry and stinging. Body begging for sleep. He picks up some scattered papers, raising his voice as he talks facing away from his friend.
“My shadow will be fine. I’m almost done with the dosage of these new pills, and those will keep me awake enough to get him to shut up. It’s like I'm resetting my sleep schedule. Going full circle!” Dr. Benzedrine looked like he was melting. Sweat dribbling down his forehead, makeup running down his face and pooling at the base of his neck. He pulls out a personalized handkerchief, dabbing away at his forehead.
“H. Shoe Crab. Leave. You’re throwing the balance of my environment off, and your presence encourages him.” Dr. Benzedrine waves his friend out of the room, not even looking at him.
The man in red and not much more tenses his jaw. Of course he wouldn’t listen. Of course his perfect, flawless concerns would go once again, ignored.
He just hopes the other one would be more reasonable tonight.
________________________________________
The woods outside were still, the sky fading into a deep red.
H. Shoe was in his cabin, slumped in his arm chair. The tv had a faint static glow around it as he blankly stared forward. After what felt like forever, the sky turned navy and the perfectly geometric stars shine through with butter yellow light. And the telltale knock of a friend comes at the door.
Heavy handed, gloved, and nearly manic. Standing, H. Shoe Crab opens the door to see Mr. Benzedrine.
“Hey M. Took you a bit longer than I thought.”
Mr. Benzedrine looked nearly identical to his “doctorate” holding host, just with a greyscale tint. His makeup was much more mime-like, and much less refined. There were messy blotches of grey by his lips where the white, caked on greasepaint smeared due to unpracticed hands. His hands were covered by cheap, fraying cotton gloves, his black suit tattered and hat slightly crumpled. It was obvious Dr. Benzedrine has been trying to hide his shadow’s favorite outfit, but couldn’t go as far as to part with an entire outfit from his nearly bloated and ornate wardrobe.
“Yes well, he locked himself in that lab of his and hid the key to try and keep me inside just in case. Took me a bit with the clumsy hands” Mr. Benzedrine was grinning too wide, his face seeming to crack. “Shall we away for the night? I heard there’s a new dive bar opening downtown! I’m sure we can find something fun for me to do!”
The hot summer night air rustles at the suggestion. H. Shoe didn’t know if he could stand another night of trying to keep him from doing something like eating glass or drinking any mysterious substance some other Celeb tries to convince him is “safe”. Of course, H. Shoe also was worried for both Benzedrines. Though no one would believe him even if he did admit that. It sounds like something Donnie would say unprompted for no reason.
But watching his friend come to and feel unwell and out of control worried him. Dr. Benzedrine locks himself away for days at a time after each outing. Rearranging his lab, concocting dangerous and untested drugs, and snapping more than usual at anything around him. And M wasn’t much better.
He’d go past his and the body’s limits, making himself feel sick. But this…hatred for the doctor seemed to force him to keep going. It was upsetting to watch. He wasn’t cruel or evil, no matter what Dr. Benzedrine says. His actions only come across as malicious as he fights in protest. But anything that Doctor can’t control in his life is “bad”. And a whole other person in his body who wants to make mistakes, who wants to be an imperfect human is the worst thing that could exist, to him. For the sake of both of his friends, H. Shoe has to try to put his foot down.
“Uh it might be crowded. We could go down to Deep’s, get some food in you first? Then we could go check it out for a little. But I think we should do a more regular night. You’re doin’ too much too often, and I feel like if…you’re trying to get real human experience, you should be adding some variation.”
Mr. Benzedrine huffs. “Is the great H. Shoe Crab getting old? Too tired to party with a drug induced apparition of his friend?”
“You’re not a hallucination or some sort of ghost, Benz,” he chided, “you’re a guy. A full human guy. And that means that you can’t just eat scraps of metal and drink mysterious sludge.”
H. Shoe grabs his tiny red hat, setting it on his curly mop of dark hair, stepping out to join Mr. Benzedrine. The shorter man grumbles as they walk. H. Shoe usually was all for messing up their shared body, why was he being so lame?
They walk side by side in an uncomfortable silence until they reach the sharp pebble beach. They still don’t speak, but the crunch of gravel underfoot eases the smallest bit of tension. They’d never argued. Mr. Benzedrine was used to fighting people like bar patrons, or the small, nagging voice of his counterpart in the back of his head.
Fishmonger Deep’s shop was a dinky little shack with a massive, glowing, flashing fluorescent sign on the rotting wood roof. Inside, it smelled like ocean, fish, and oil. Phony awards were framed on the wall, like how restaurants frame their glowing reviews. Deep himself was a tall, ribby man. His skin a pale sickly green, and his sclera yellowed. He honestly looked (and acted like) more fish than man. Slightly bulging eyes, tiny ears that looked almost like fins, and a slimy demeanor.
“Ah! Benadryl and Lobster, hello!” Deep smiles wide, revealing a row of crooked, yellow teeth. Mr. Benzedrine and H. Shoe Crab sit down. The shadow orders food, the carnie just stares at his folded hands
________________________________________
Things slowly get grey-er in Mr. Benzedrine’s head. That cold yet burning feeling you get after a social blunder.
That feeling you get when you shit talk with a friend. Things feel like they’re going well and you share a mutual level of dislike for the same person. But you say something that “takes it too far”. And you either get a tense, judgmental look or a “ooh..that’s…that’s not-“ from someone who just said something much worse.
Mr. Benzedrine didn’t like this feeling. H. Shoe was his friend. Technically his only friend. And until now, he thought they shared that mutual level of dislike for the doctor. His mind swims with conflicting thoughts. Half of them hating himself for taking it too far and having nothing else to his personality other than hating Dr. Benzedrine. But the other half was resenting H. Shoe. Why was he now against having fun? About pranking Dr. Benzedrine like normal?
The vinegar on his horrendous little dish wasn’t nearly enough for him to have this almost nauseous feeling cut through.
Mr. Benzedrine wasn’t used to being “wrong”. Granted, the only people he hung out were drunks and a man with terrible facial hair. Terrible facial hair AND a tiny stupid hat. Who even makes hats that small?
He pushes the dirty white bowl away, still half-full of jellied eels. He stands from the dinky barstool he was sat on, and mumbles to his accomplice as he turns to the door.
“I’m not hungry. I’m just going to wait outside for when we go.”