April 16, 2016

Mitch:

I regret my life as soon as I slide into the driver's seat, but I'll never tell him that. My stomach is bending and stretching against three of the five incisions and it burns like a red-hot fire poker both inside and out. The tiny black zigzags are slowly dissolving their way out of my skin, but the movement makes me hyperaware that they are still there, holding me together like a tortured voodoo doll. I check around the house carefully while I pull out of the driveway, and then I'm off on another great adventure, driving thirty miles away to dump yet another one of Jerome's metallic corpses. You would think I didn't just do this three months ago with his last victim. I look self-consciously around myself at the empty stoplight in front of the housing community before I pull my shorts and underwear down another two inches to keep the clothing from rubbing against the still-sore ridges of stitched skin by my hip bones on both sides. The light finally turns green and I pick up speed, hoping to put a lot of distance between the computer and the house in case they managed to get enough evidence to get a search warrant. We've watched from very, very afar as some of his more devious friends have fallen from their virtual thrones and been made examples of, and I can't imagine having to visit him behind a clear plastic wall for five years.

Everything would fall apart without him.

I don't notice the aching, pulling sensation until I am about to turn onto the road leading to the bridge, and after waging a five minute struggle to recline the seat while I'm still sitting on it, I only manage to relieve some of the pain. Connective tissue, nerves, and empty space are in places they have never been before and my organs don't appreciate being forced into new positions by the vertical pull of gravity. It aches non-stop, from my right side by my ribcage all the way down to my dick, which is still throbbing lightly from the sudden shift in hormones. I can't tell if I have actually grown another quarter-inch from the free-floating T that isn't battling against estrogen anymore, or if it is just permanently hard from the huge surge of every kind of hormone imaginable that came right after the surgery and refuses to dissipate. It's incredibly difficult to get off when your boyfriend is afraid of hurting you by even touching you and helping him on his way isn't enough to do it for you. There are ways around it, if he wasn't so fucking stubborn.

When I manage to do it myself, though... It feels so different. It feels lighter, easier, real. It doesn't feel as deep or muscular as it did before, and there isn't that dull cramping feeling afterward that used to make my breath hitch and almost make me dread the end. I feel free now. I feel more like how I should feel and how I think a bioguy would feel, letting go of myself and not trying to bring something else in. Now sex can just be sex and not my body's attempt to carry out a script it was never meant to run on in the first place.

The problem is to stop thinking about it. It's all I can think about. No matter what I do, it's always there in the background, doing everything it can to grab my attention. I'm not denying that we were both horned toads before the surgery - there's no doubt we were. But this is a whole new level that he refuses to match and might not even be able to if he tried. I used to think it was bad when I first started HRT but this is a whole new ball game, pun very much intended.

I can't stop thinking about it and every bump in the road makes it worse. The tires bounce mercilessly as I drive off the other end of the bridge and I avoid the frowns of the lines of people waiting to pay their tolls on the other side, feeling like they somehow know what is going on inside my head. I drive about ten minutes into town until I find a donation center, making sure the doors are closed and the lights are off for the day before I jump out of the car and head to the trunk, anxious to get rid of the evidence. The bag is heavy and my stitches sting and burn as my muscles strain to lift the bag of twisted metal out and slam the trunk behind me, and I grimace in pain as I swing the bag up and sling it into the far back corner of the nearest dumpster, where it will soon be buried under layers and layers of other useless crap. I have to hold my stomach and take a breather before I turn around to leave, still bitter that any of this ever happened and that I have to be the one out here hiding the evidence when I still feel like shit. I probably shouldn't even be driving. I check around me to make sure that no one is going to come after me for trespassing before I pull myself back in the car and drive back out on the main road, only going down to the next street to stop and pull up in front of another dark shop front, this one having gone out of business.

I can't take it anymore.

Please don't start hurting all of a sudden.

I pull my shorts down another two inches and that's all I need. Two inches, two minutes, two fingers later, I am clenching my teeth and holding it back so I don't rip open the stitches holding the gaping hole shut inside. It feels so good to release... How much better will it be after everything has healed up and I don't need to control myself anymore? What will it feel like to not worry anymore about waking up to streaks of blood on the sheets from The Cycle coming back, or more recently, about waking up to a huge mistake making me puke my guts out?

It takes longer to pull myself back together than it did to get off in the first place, and I feel the familiar drowziness around the edges of my mind as I pull back out onto the busy street and head back toward the bridge of dreams. I don't notice how soaked the seat of my pants is until I have to hold my breath and strain to lean out the window to drop a handful of loose change in the toll booth, squishing unceremoniously when my ass lands back on the cold, damp seat.

"Fuck." At least the car has fake leather seats. We chose those so rain water wouldn't ruin them if Jerome was smart enough to leave the windows down again like he did during a snowstorm in Jersey, but this and Lachlan's frequent soda spills are the only uses we've had for them to this point. I pull through the lane as the black and yellow bar rises up like a guillotine, and sharp bumps in the road rub sensitive skin against too-rough cloth until I can feel more warmth growing in the pit of my stomach. "Damn it."

I am going to do something about this tonight, and if he doesn't like it, he can go sleep with his dead computer. It only takes thirty seconds to plan out my route, and before I can figure out how the argument with him is going to go, I am searching for a spot in our old friend Target's parking lot. I rub my hands lightly across my ass and thighs, pretending to brush off crumbs while I check to see how noticeable the chilly dampness is.

Very. It's like I pissed myself.

I just hope it isn't blood.

A huff of breath rattles out between my gritted teeth and I circle back around to the trunk to grab the cheap blue sweatshirt Rob left in the backseat when he stayed with us before the Ireland trip. I tie it around my waist and I debate whether or not I'll give it back to him now, but knowing him and his elephantine memory, he will pester both of us to death until he gets it back. How many of the same blue sweatshirt does one person realistically need? I slam the trunk shut and lock the car, hurrying awkwardly with a slight limp into the store and to the food section, piling up ageless pretzels, generic cheese puffs, and sriracha beef jerky in a carry basket to pacify Alex; a four-pack of coffee-flavored Monsters and a box of Fruit-By-the-Foots to smack Alex with to entertain the Bacca; and the biggest roll of plastic food wrap in the store to calm my fucking body down. He can't be the only one who gets some this week.

The old crow at the self-check-out hangs over my shoulder the whole time, her beady eyes trained on me through her bejewelled granny glasses, daring me to look back at her staring at me. I sigh in disbelief that this little bit of shit cost forty-two dollars and I pocket the receipt, pretending that Miss Gulch the Witch isn't still looking me up and down in disapproval as I walk past her and toward the metal detectors. Just in time, I feel a Grinch-like grin move across my face, knowing exactly how the rest of my night is going to turn out.

'Sugary shit,' indeed.

---

April 16, 2016

Jerome:

"CLEAR!!!" I shriek as I jump back from the sticker-graffitied laptop hard enough to make the chair bunny hop up in the air. Dondo jolts back into half-awakeness on the bed next to me. His eyes only look kinda terrified, though. Must be gettin' immune. Gotta fix that.

"So you aren't going to take my computer apart?"

"Not this time, friendarino. Maybe next time. Unless you want me to?" He pushes past me and snaps the lid shut, picking the scratched-up laptop up and holding it to his chest like a newborn baby.

"Mine." I lunge forward and pretend to go for the computer and he goes into full panic mode. I just grab a handful of rainbow Goldfish from the paper fish bowl he's been curating on his desk, snickering at the sleepy glare on his face. Why's it always feel so good to be the bad guy? "Don't you have somewhere else to be?"

"Ain't nothin' good on Mitch's computer for them to find, so I'm in no hurry. Can't you wait five minutes before you start whacking on the poor thing again?" The frown lines deepen and I think he might actually get angry and say something offensive. I'm all ears, King Dondo. Then it sinks in... I touched his computer. I touched Dondo's computer. With my hands. And now I'm eating food. From Dondo's room. With my hands. I touched his computer. I look right in his eyes and I say it for all the world to hear: "You're nasty."

"You're nasty."

"You're nasty."

"You're the nasty one."

"Nah, you're nasty!" I sprinkle the cardboard-and-cheese-flavored fish back in his bowl that's probably been up here since Lachlan moved out and I wipe my hands of it all. "You're nasty. And clean up that guacamole."

"It's not mine!"

"It's your room! You're nasty, Dondo!" He pushes the door shut behind me with his big toe and I hear the lock click. Someday, I'm gonna find out what he does in there, I swear to god. I catch myself rubbing the side of my nose and I groan at the nastiness of the whole thing. Hackers and guilt and rage and Dondo cheese. Blegh.

I scrub my hands off in the guest bathroom with a shit ton of soap and hot water before I head down the hall to Mitch's room, feeling pretty satisfied with myself when I key in his supposedly secret password. Took me a minute to realize it was three zip codes, though. I pull up good ol' bleacher from the depths of his computer and after a couple minutes of scanning and manually checking his file directory, we're all good. But since I'm already here... I scroll through the old thumbnails he's too lazy to get rid of and pick out a real fugly winner before I stick it in Photoshop, invert the colors, and save it as his desktop.

"Don't talk to me about ugly ass faces, Mitch. Goddamn." I shut the screen on his laptop and grab the half-drunk Monster from yesterday or the day before off the dresser and chug the flat, filmy, sugary swamp on my way downstairs. "And you are... off?" I peek in his office and see his recording computer is all the way shut down and I'm tempted to not and say I did, but that's how Armageddon started. I don't want no part in that. I start her up and look at his new password hint. Me cracking his computers semi-legit has turned into a game and as soon as I see he typed 'Marco,' I know I hafta type 'SHUTTHEFUCKUPJEROME' in all caps and no spaces. Who could forget the first time I ever made his mom cuss? I'll never forget the look on her face, either. I set the bleach a goin' and I know we're all good when I see he hasn't even been on this computer for two days, the lazy bastard. No wonder Dondo never sleeps - he's doing the second half of Mitch's brick load of shitty videos. I make sure there's no internet before I set his homepage as the holy meatspin homepage and crank up the volume so it'll make his meat spin before I shut the computer down and head out to the dark TV room to wait.

I have to call the cable company and change our IP again tomorrow. That's a hundred bucks I wasn't counting on. For as much money as we make, we're pretty deep in the shit hole about now. Guess it's time to close your mouth, cover your nose, and keep swimming. I jump my ass over the back of the couch and just chill in the semi-silence of Alex pounding on his keyboard and snickering upstairs. I drift...

...then I'm immediately wide awake. I hear the car turn the corner on the main street and my heart's thumping too loud to tell if it's slowing down or not. A dim brightness passes by the little window up above the TV and I count the seconds to see if it's gonna pause or act like a normal car. One, two, three, four, moving. Normal car, probably not a cop. The light gets brighter as it turns on our street and the garage door starts rumbling open. Dondo's stomping across the floor and unlocking his door before I can even haul my ass off the couch. He's like a fuckin' dog, always looking for handouts. I see him grinning down at me from the upstairs hallway like the Cheshire Cat and we keep staring at each other until the kitchen light clicks on. And unless he can fly, I'm gonna win the race.

"Are we all clear?" Mitch asks before he can even see me and I creep outta the shadows to join him in the too-bright light.

"Can you feel it, Mr. Krabs?" He doesn't look impressed and he subconsciously tightens the smoke-scented Woofless skin around his hips before he lifts up the first bag of his trollin' haul. Dondo appears and stays on the other side of the bar like he's ready to sprint off again after someone tops off his cholesterol tank. Mitch searches through the bag for something before he tosses it directly at Alex's head, a purple-blue bag of something almost flying out midair.

"And this is all yours. Enjoy." He slides a boxier bag over to me and I know it's full of caffeine before I even touch it. And it looks like there's stuff to torment our favorite little shut-in with, too: sticky fruit smackers and a mile and a half of Saran wrap. This's gonna be good. I look over at the innocent confusion on Alex's face as he digs through his trick-or-treat bag and comes up with a bag of jerky with a big red cock on it. He's enjoying himself a little too much. Might need to fix that. "Hey, Jerome. Heads up." I flinch away and look up and a spoonful of something light yellow is dripping down on my head and it's cold and gooey and-

"AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH! AAAHHH! COFFEE!" I can smell it. He hands me a bowl of broken up Snickers and coffee ice cream and I feel like I just won the Nobel Peace Prize. "You the best, Biggums. You really do care. I'm tearin' up over here."

"That's because you aren't supposed to inhale the candy, dood. You have to chew it," he explains slowly and I nod along solemnly from my spot against the wall, both of us turning to see Dondo's sad puppy dog face. Mitch reaches into the bag and grabs two more giant bowls of frozen sugar and he checks through the top before he hands one over to him across the bar.

There's that sinister smile we all know and fear.

This's gonna be good.

He pops the plastic lid off and looks down at the multicolored, multilayered surprise, frowning at it before he looks back up at Mitch.

"What is it?"

"It's fro-yo."

"Aw, it's healthy?" I feel a two-second temptation not to eat it just because of that, but it's too damn good to stop. "Dammit."

"I know but what's on it?"

"Just a little bit of... everything." Mitch opens his container of what I'm gonna guess is peanut butter something and starts eating it with a microscopic spoon and we watch Alex sigh and start fishing the Swedish Fish out of his ice cream shit. There's candy and cookies and sprinkles and whipped cream and frosting and there're chunks of strawberries and brownie and yellow cake and syrup and chocolate chips smashed together with blue swirly iced yogurt. And on the bottom, more Swedish Fish.

"What'd I do?" Mitch just stares at him and keeps eating his nuts and cream and Alex nods and slinks outta the room and back upstairs, all of us aware that he won't ditch the corpse for us next time, either.

"Can't blame him for not wanting to get his fingerprints on it, though." Mitch snorts and shuts the light off, grabbing the plastic wrap on his way past.

"Yes, I can. It rains every night to wash them away. I didn't want to drive around for an hour and a half, either, but I did it."

"And thanks. Thanks for savin' my ass. Again." He shrugs with a mouthful of fake ice cream and waves the box of plastic at me mysteriously. I just look at him until he swallows his food to explain.

"Soon I'll  be thanking you. Let's get this show on the road." I don't know if I'm gonna like this or not. At least there's sugary shit, right?