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Your name is Bro Strider and you've got to admit, you are a big fan of National Geographic.
Why?
What, you're not allowed to look at pretty pictures taken around the planet you inhabit, learn some scientific facts about random junk?
Well, you are, damn it, but that's got little to nothing to do with why you actually like said mags. To be honest, your interest only spans a couple of years, when a certain adventurer was at the peak of his career and starred in some of the more exotic articles they produced a good bit before you were born.
Harley was and always will be a legend in your book.
And damn if he isn't-- or wasn't-- the hottest thing on two legs you've ever seen, you’ll eat your hat.
You remember the first time you saw him like it was yesterday. You’d been digging around in the back of the school library because poor kids didn't eat lunch and there he was, hands planted firmly on his hips as he stood on top of the biggest brick you'd ever seen. His face had been covered in dirt, or sand, you weren't really sure which but you honestly hadn't cared all that much.
He'd been staring straight at the camera and you didn't really care how dumb it sounded, you'd felt like he'd been smiling right at you.
It'd taken off from there and it still made you smile to think about the frown the old librarian had given you the next day when she found that specific copy of Nat. Geo. missing from the shelves.
Oh, she'd known it was you but she hadn't said anything and the day before you'd officially dropped out, you'd found a stack of magazines piled up in your locker-- every issue she'd had with Harley in it.
It'd been the best present you'd ever gotten.
Now they've become something of a collector’s item but money isn't really an issue for you anymore. You've got a porn site and more smuppets than you know what to do with to handle that and if you need some extra funding for your favorite past time, you just take another gig or two at some of the clubs. They're always willing to pay top dollar for a real DJ.
All you've got to do is track them down, negotiate a price and they're yours.
As of right now, you're only missing two and, unfortunately, no one seems to have any clue where to find them.
It's a little upsetting, you won't lie, you've gotten kind of fond of reading the new articles when they come in and you've actually learned a lot about a ton of random shit. Some of it's even useful, if you ever land yourself in a jungle or in a place where an immense amount of knowledge on desert wild life is important, at least.
Whatever.
They don't have to be useful and you're not about to justify your collection to anyone.
Everyone's got their hobbies and if yours happen to be looking through magazines older than you are, drooling over a guy that's more than twice your age, if not dead by now, well you'll fucking do it if you want to.
It's not like it's got any real impact on your life anyway.
You definitely don't turn down dates for a night in rereading old adventures and you definitely don't dream about how much you wish you could have been there with him.
You don't waste your time wanting things you can never have because that's just not what Striders do.
Or, at least, that's what you tell yourself because, the truth is, you do all of those things and more.
Dave knows it, you know it, hell, you're pretty sure Mrs. H, your ancient land lady down the hall, knows it.
Actually, no, you know that she knows it because she let it slip once that she too used to have a surprising collection of magazines that held quite the resemblance to yours.
How she knew you'd been ordering them was still up for question but you're leaning more towards her peeking at your mail than Dave's theory that she can read your mind.
The kid's surprisingly cool about it too and that makes you proud in more ways than one.
He was your adventure, you suppose, one that's still ongoing and it might not have been swimming up dirty rivers in South America or tumbling down sand dunes in Egypt but it was a hell of a ride.
And you don't regret a bit of it.
Still, it doesn't stop you from wishing or from scouring the internet for fuel for an old dream you can't seem to let go of. And you guess, maybe it's not all that weird if Dave's behind you.
You know the box he just dropped in your hands is pretty important if his smile is anything to go by. There's more stamps than you can count littering the corner and it was mailed from some island you've never even heard of but when you open it up, that's the last thing on your mind because sitting in the center, nestled in a bed of bubble wrap is an old, leather bound book. Pages are spilling out of the side and it's dirty, got that musky scent of gunpowder and oil clinging to it, but 'J. Harley' is stamped right across the front.
"Journal," you breathe, looking up over the edges of your shades.
Dave just shrugs at you but you see the corners of his lips twitching, tilting even though it's obvious he's trying not to grin too much.
That little fucker found Harley's journal.
And he gave it to you.
--you.
Holdy motherfucking shit.
"How'd you get this?"
"You remember Jade? I told you about her a while back, the girl with the devil dog?"
You nod. You remember him talking about the girl with the green type that flirted with him back in the day but you haven't heard much of her since. "What about her?"
This time he can't bite it back and when he shrugs again, his shoulders are shaking as he laughs and you're not sure what the fuck is so funny but you figure he'll get it out eventually.
...maybe.
"Dave."
"Right. Right, sorry." Taking a deep breath, he rubs a hand over his face and points a finger at the book in the box. "Her name's Jade Harley and guess who her Grandpa is."
"You've got to be kidding me."
"Sorry, Bro, this is one hundred percent, unironic sincerity." A piece of paper is dropped in your lap and when you grab it, it's got some more of that messy green pen on it.
"gardenGnostic?"
"Yeah, it's her chumhandle."
You're not really sure what to say and it's kind of embarrassing in a fucked up way because this is Dave and you're the one that's supposed to be doing things for him. You're supposed to be the one supporting him with all of his dead bugs and getting him new tables and buying him all the apple juice he could ever ask for.
But, you guess he's not much of a kid anymore because he just turned the tables on you and he's not laughing at you for whatever this is.
You'd always known it was silly. They were fucking National Geographic magazines with wrinkled pages and pictures of a guy you pretty much had no hope of ever meeting.
They were prime material for him to take all of that shit you'd given him with the smuppets and Cal and turn it right back around on you.
But he didn't and you feel stupid just thinking that he might have even considered making you play it off as ironic interest.
"Thanks." There's not really much else you can dig up to say but you think he gets it and you're starting to think that maybe this shit meant a lot more to you than even you'd guessed because his smile softens and when he flaps a hand at you it's lacking that usual exasperation.
"Yeah, yeah, don't bust out the waterworks, Bro." He clears his throat and when he continues, you can't help but roll your eyes. "Better get to reading, Jade said she's gonna message you tonight to get all the juicy details about you having the hots for her gramps. Says she wants it first hand and there'll be a quiz. Better brush up on all those gentlemanly manners, I hear Gramps is a stickler for bein' polite."
And just like that, you're pretty sure it's about time to give your PC a break for the evening.
Or, maybe, you'll just erase Pesterchum altogether.
Right after you strangle Dave though.
Strider's don't blush, no matter what that little brat says and Strider's certainly don't leave proof of the contrary just lying around.
You never know where that shit might end up or who'll see it, after all, and no amount of fuel for your Adventure-ly inclined fantasies is going to stop you from getting that picture back.