I know, I know, kurt/karofsky is impossible and "disgusting." But I felt that Karofsky needed someone to tell his side, and I wanted to be one of those people who did. Up until the veeery end I think I did well; the end...it doesn't settle with me, but I can't think of much else to put. Oh, well.
There's too much pain in the world, he thinks – it overlaps, all the miseries intertwine with one another to make one grandiose mess altogether. Everyone knows pain, everyone has felt it. Everyone has gotten that prick in their finger from a splinter; everyone has bitten the inside of their cheek; everyone has stubbed their toe. Pain is a common thing.
He doesn't care about third-world countries or the poor or the dying, he only cares about himself. People can't hurt you when you only care about yourself. And so he doesn't care, just goes about the daily routines of school and football, goes through the motions day by day.
(But that's not enough.)
.
His hand hovers over the buttons. The phone shakes in his hand, and the white numbers blur together, but the phonebook doesn't and he can see the telephone number clear as day staring back at him in black ink.
Dave leans against his bedroom wall, closes his eyes, and tries to make sense of things. But everything clouds everything else, thoughts swarming and words entangling themselves: Neanderthal, scared little boy, homo, ignoramus, "go ahead and punch me." It all becomes one big jumble of hateful words and things and images –
He finds himself punching the buttons at a speed he couldn't have imagined a moment ago, and when it clicks all he says is "F you, fairy" before hanging up, and the tears rush forward all too quickly afterwards.
.
When he's up there with the glee club in the middle of the football field, well, he feels okay. He may not have any makeup or costume on, but to just fall in line as another nondescript loser (for a brief shining moment a hero)…it's better than being a part of the team almost.
Finn flashes Dave a smile from up front, as if to say "good job, man" and suddenly everything is alright in his world. Maybe after they're done performing he'll go with them to hang out, and nobody will throw any slushies at them, and Hummel will come back, and, and, and…
He can't think that far ahead (it hurts to think about that kid) but for now, it's all about the Thriller and it feels perfect.
.
But then the motions return, and he's still filling cups to the brim with colorful ice to splash on them, and his mind is filling to the brim with biting comments, but on the inside everything feels like shattered glass; it doesn't feel like he belongs anywhere anymore. He's a robot again, just going with the flow mechanically.
He throws a cup of purple slushie on Evans in passing, a remark of "You do your hair yourself?" escaping his lips before he even has the time to think about it. He walks down the hall as robotically as possible, but when he collides with the lockers he wakes up as if from a deep slumber and turns round to pin the culprit against the wall.
"What was that for?" he screams in Evans' face. The other boy pushes him off him with blistered fists, merciless blue eyes burning holes into his own. His fat lips curl into a less than menacing snarl, and he cracks his knuckles warningly.
"Why don't you pick on someone your own size?" he demands, shoving Dave backwards into the lockers yet again. It comes back again (his scared little baby face, hiding and whimpering), and the tears burn against his eyes but he can't cry, can't cry, but he can punch, hit, kick.
The memories swim before his vision again, and then all he sees is red as he feels himself grabbing and hitting something hard, and then being hit back with the same intensity before falling against the wall. Everything is firecracker-loud, exploding and pounding in his brain (pain, he has never felt such pain). "You're a miserable lowlife and I hope you rot in Hell!" Dave hears Evans shout it, even though all he sees is red before him, but he can't help but wonder if someone else wanted to say it.
.
He dreams at night; the kind of dreams that leave you sweating under the covers and screaming into your pillow from all the severe agony.
In it he holds his hand as they walk down the barren hallway, lead by this little baby-faced boy who just keeps smiling as he lets his hand get swallowed up. Everything about him is so small and delicate, like a china doll with porcelain skin. Dave stares at him as they walk, feeling pulsations in his fingers as he desires to touch that face.
He stops then, even though the boy is trying to lead him. He stares at the boy's face intently, sees the hazy halo of light that envelops his entire being. Slowly, he brushes his fingertips against the boy's face, and suddenly it shatters: the cracks run deep in his skin, and his smile disappears as they travel up his face in jagged black lines before it all tumbles down in a pile of shards.
Dave wakes up horrified; he doesn't know the boy at all as he's dreaming, but he knows him too well when he's awake.
.
The clink of scraping silverware echoes into the dining room. His father and mother sit across from him, quietly dining on the roasted chicken. Dave doesn't lift the fork to his lips after a few seconds, which melt into minutes; he just watches the slices of chicken, stems of broccoli, cups of water slide through their mouths.
After awhile his father looks over at him, beard rustling as he chews. "David, you've barely touched your supper," he says, gesturing to his plate. "Your mother cooked this because she knew it was your favorite." He stares at the fork hoisted halfway in the air, and wipes his other sweaty palm on his jeans. While he doesn't know himself what he is, he knows what he should say.
Dave takes a deep breath. "Dad, Mom…I think I have to say something." They drop their forks on their plates, staring at him wide-eyed, mouths open in expectation. He swallows, but the lump in his throat refuses to dislodge itself, so he just speaks around it best he can.
The words fly out as a mess; he doesn't know what he says, not the exact words, but he can tell he said what he needed to as his parents' eyes gloss over with terror. It all blurs together again (such a blurry life), but he remembers the growls of "not in my house" and "this has to be a phase," and the screams of "get out" and "Devil's doing" and "worthless" as he runs away from the glasses being flung at the wall. He grabs his backpack, sitting docilely by the doorway, and leaves just as he hears "I never thought much of him anyway."
.
Dave finds himself leaning against Finn's door, frostbitten from the cold and the backpack weighing heavily on his shoulders. As the door opens, he grabs Finn by the arms, gazing up at him with pleading eyes. He doesn't want to cry but he finds his head hanging and his knees giving out ("man, please help, please. i know what a jerk i am but you gotta help, you gotta, gotta.") Finn awkwardly leads him inside, and sets him on the sofa. It's conveniently next to the radiator, and Dave moans in relief as the hot air rushes to the frozen tips of his eyelashes.
Finn disappears into what seems to be the kitchen; Dave hears a hushed whisper, and then a squeaky, high-pitched voice starts to scream. It screams no and insensitive and crazy and Neanderthal, and Dave gets sick to his stomach at every piercing word.
Finally Finn's voice comes back with kicked out and only place left and one night. The high-pitched screaming ceases, but then harsh foot-stomping takes its place, loud and growing softer as he leaves the room.
He looks up as he hears shuffling, and Finn stands above him with a ghastly afghan that he hands over. Dave takes it but he doesn't put it over himself – it just lies next to him on the couch. Finn licks his lips nervously, stuffs his hands in his pockets, and looks anywhere but at Dave.
"You can stay for tonight, if you need to," he says. "My mom probably won't mind and Bu – Mr. Hummel can be convinced…maybe." Dave nods solemnly as he remembers the way the old man smashed him against the wall and glared at him, ablaze with fury (threatened the life of my son). He shivers.
"Babyface ain't too happy, is he?" he asks with an almost growl. Finn's head snaps up and there's an icy anger glowing in his gaze. As much of a softie as Finn is, he can get as angry as the worst of them.
"Don't…don't call Kurt that," he says, "Not if you…if you wanna stay here." So Dave, with no place to go and no one else to run to, quiets.
At night he hears a lower voice rumble no and insensitive and crazy and Neanderthal, but then a womanly voice breaks in with Finn's kicked out and only place left and one night, and what may be the clincher: think of him as Kurt. The rumbling voice hesitates, and the foot-stomping ensues yet again, only this time it grows louder until he sees the man before him, his teeth clenched and hat askew.
"Look, kid," he says, "I don't like you. And I doubt if I ever will, but I understand what you're going through – to a point. And I don't want to heave you onto the street like your folks did, so you can stay for one" – he angrily points a beefy finger at Dave's nose – "night, but if I hear you hurt my son in any way when I wake up, I will do much worse than kick you out. Do you understand?"
Dave nods, hesitantly, and Mr. Hummel lets his arm hang back by his side. "Goodnight." he says as he turns away toward the bedroom, and Dave lets his head fall back onto his pillow. His mind swirls with images again, kicking and screaming images, quiet and daunting images, whispered words trailing through his gray matter until his head lolls with sleep.
(The last word he hears himself think before he falls asleep is sorry.)
.
He ends up staying longer than one night; it's not planned, they just form into weeklong periods that breach months. He's never moved to a more comfortable position than the couch under the afghan and he doesn't spend any time with the Hummels. He refuses to talk to Finn or his mom or Hummel's old man, and especially not Hummel himself. (He sometimes sees the boy slip past him through the front door, shielded by Finn on their way to school, but that's it.) He makes sure to slip in late at night when they're all fast asleep and in the morning he's gone at dawn, ready to hit the 7-11 for breakfast. He doesn't thank them either; his new somewhat kind treatment of the glee club losers is the closest thing to it.
In the halls Finn gives him sideways glances as if asking him to speak but Dave pushes past him without any eye contact. Sometimes in the locker room Finn will offer him a hello or throw him a towel if he needs it, but there's still that barrier of iciness Dave puts up because he doesn't want people to think he's friends with a glee loser (who happens to be sheltering him after his parents kicked him out because he might be gay).
When everyone's asleep he digs his fist into his backpack and comes up with crumpled letters, letters written in slipshod handwriting that were never slipped into a locker or thrown into a mailbox – letters of apology, letters of sorrow (lettersofalmostlove). He smoothes one out: it's written in blue Sharpie, the scent still fresh, on torn notebook paper. There're only a few decipherable words but the message can be recognized from them: I'm sorry – forgive me – come back to McKinley – I love you.
(The I love you is shakily scratched out.)
Collecting the letter, he walks down the hall and stands in front of the doorway that has to be Kurt's because there's a poster of Barbra Streisand on it. He bends down before it, again unfolds the letter, and prepares to stuff it under –
"What's your favorite Katy Perry song again?" Dave stops; it's Kurt's female-sounding voice seeping through the cracks in the door. It's speaking not to him, though; to someone on his side of the door.
"Ah, you ought to know." somebody chuckles; his voice is honey-sweet and all too familiar. Dave remembers a guy in a Dalton blazer, shouting his secrets to the world like it was nothing (it was everything).
"I do like that one too." Kurt responds, and everything goes silent again except for the light whispers of nothing and moist lips meeting each other. Dave trembles on his hands and knees as he hears the creaky springs of a bed and blissful boyish laughter, and he starts to choke on the oxygen swirling about him. In frustration he rips the letter into tiny pieces until there's no way to tape them back together, and he leaves them littered before the door as he runs back to the couch.
.
Dave writes the word retarded in the same blue Sharpie over a row of lockers. Evans' and Finn's are among them but he doesn't care anymore that Finn is helping him out because everything is just so messed up and wrong and painful (painpainpain). It isn't fair that he has to be subjected to such forms of mental cruelty and torment when there are dictators, rapists, murderers who aren't feeling a fricking twinge of remorse for what they've done when all he's done is been a scared little boy.
Evans catches him as he loops the last d, and it's furious fists once more, and this time it's Dave again that gets burned; Evans throws him against the lockers hard and his shoe threatens to come down on Dave's face (redredred all he sees is red) but someone picks him off the ground. "Lay off, Sam!" It sounds like Finn but it could be anybody, all Dave knows is his nose is spurting something but he's not sure if it's blood because everything is still so very red.
He's hauled to the nurse's office where he hears it's most definitely blood, and she fixes him with a box of tissues and tells him to hold his head up. Finn stands by the door, obviously ready to leave but he keeps looking at Dave like he's waiting for something.
"I ain't sorry." he growls. Finn breathes heavily now.
"You're welcome" is what he says before departing.
.
Finn doesn't tell about the catastrophe and Dave is more than relieved, and he feels grateful but he won't say a thing still. That night he slips in through the front door; the house is pitch-black and seems almost empty. It's foreboding the way all the lights are off and everything's shut down; it reminds him of himself, a body with barely any soul (a soul that's shut down).
He goes to the afghan, but the creak of a door makes him pause. Finn, he thinks, and he turns around but the boy isn't tall and gawky – he's small and delicate and his nose is bulbous and eyes are glittery and hair is silky brown and god it's too much all at once.
"Why are you such a jerk?" Kurt spits, arms crossed, perfectly plucked eyebrows edging downward over fiery eyes. Dave feels his jaw and hands clench almost instinctively. He tries not to speak too loudly, tries not to scream at him.
"Why are you such a fairy?" he retaliates, "One for one, Tinkerbell." Kurt's eyes get a little bit bigger with the fury bubbling within him. Dave smirks; the comment was supposed to stay inside him, but the metallic taste of normalcy was too much not to take a bite – without Hummel there's no longer any kind of familiarity (heck, he's not even living in his house anymore, there's more to it than Hummel).
Kurt moves nearer to him, porcelain face contorted into a snarl. Suddenly Dave is dizzy and nauseated, and he can't have Hummel too close to him or he'll do something regrettable – he takes a wobbly step backwards.
"Just stop it, Karofsky," Kurt demands, tiny fists aimed as if he could actually do damage, "Stop acting this way and – and grow up." Dave's head begins to swim, and the images and words start to swirl again – grow up, grow up, grow up. Grow up for what? Why? It hurts him like he's been shot in the chest, and his heart fills with quickly pulsing blood that threatens to suffocate him.
"Don't say that to me," Dave replies, "You don't get it. You're different than me, nobody can know about me. I got kicked out of my home – your dad thinks you're a gay angel sent from Heaven." Kurt's anger seems to dissolve at once, replaced by something like remorse, or empathy. Dave collapses onto the couch and tugs the afghan over his head, a signal for Kurt to go. But he doesn't; he stands there like a child shaken and Dave can't bear it when thoughts of how much he looks like a delicate china doll come into his consciousness because then he'll want to touch him again, and he may do worse than leave cracks in his face.
"It's nothing to be ashamed of." Kurt whispers, breath still in the tense air. "Don't let people define you like that." He turns toward the hallway, and for some cruel reason he laughs. "Gay angel," Dave hears him mutter as he walks away, "The priest would love that one."
.
This time Dave brings 7-11 to the house with him, a greasy burger stench trailing behind him and mixing with the smell of bacon grease and fried eggs. He doesn't sit at the kitchen table though; he still eats at his place on the couch, trying but failing to keep ketchup from dribbling onto the shag carpet. As he eats, two slushies rests on the coffee table, blue and frigid and in a way ominous.
Kurt and Finn round the corner as he stuffs the greasy bag into his backpack, and they stare at him – they didn't expect him to still be there. He stares back at them, then takes the slushies into his hand and takes them over to the boys. He hands Finn the first, Kurt the second.
Dave doesn't utter an apology or any words at all, but Kurt hides a smile as he drinks the sorry slushie.
.
Third time's a charm, he's always been told – and maybe this time it really is, secretly, as he's shoved into the wall from behind.
Dave knows instantly it's Evans, and not just by the pungent cologne smell. He tries to break free but he's pinned against the lockers, his face squished between the lock of one; it stings and burns against him.
"Get off me!" he tries to shout but it's muffled, and it hurts to try and speak. Evans, his hands gripping Dave's wrists hard, pushes him harder into the wall. He leans his head close, hissing in Dave's ear,
"This is what you get, for hurting Kurt." Repeatedly Dave gets smashed against the lockers, over and over and over again. His cheek starts to pulsate with great pain and his eye eventually swells shut. He keeps kicking and screaming but Evans is evidently strong for such a lean kid. The red invades his vision again, swimming around and making his brain pound with the blood vessels out of whack (thumpthump – thumpthump).
"Sam, are you trying to kill him?" Finn. Finn's screaming – or is it Finn? Really, it's all so confusing – the red swirls with blackness that Dave finds himself falling into. He tries to pull out, but he tips forward again. Eventually, with a thud, he knows he has fallen, and the red disappears altogether.
.
He doesn't know what time it is, and doesn't bother to check the microwave clock – he just stumbles out of Finn's car, stumbles up to the door, stumbles into the kitchen. He can barely see out of his left eye ("Dude, don't touch it, it's gross-looking" are Finn's comforting words) so it makes walking to the chair across the room and sitting down in it that much more entertaining.
He can feel Finn's eyes on him, even if he can't see him; he hears the heavy breathing – or maybe it's his own. Really, he can't tell anymore.
All of a sudden something liquid, cool and calming, touches his eye. He jerks back a second, but then allows the moist coldness to dribble over his face. It smarts at first but then, as it settles, it turns into a serene type of watery medication, running over his face and dripping down his chin.
"Finn," he hears – the voice is high, quiet, nervous. "Go into the hall closet, I'll need Neosporin and iodine." Footsteps echo away. Dave pays more attention to the water on his eye. He tries to see Kurt through his good eye, the only one left, but the boy remains behind him, swabbing the sores and washing the blood off (it's crusted, so he has to push down). Licking his lips (there's still blood there, but Kurt dares not wipe it off), Dave coughs,
"It's hard." The coolness pressing on his eye goes away for a fraction of a second – a harsh, long pause in his mind. But then it returns, and there's a sigh following.
"Yeah," Kurt says, "it is." There's more silence, just the sound of water running and the feel of Kurt's hand on his skin (nonogodnonotagain).
"I just…ugh, I wish it wasn't this way." Dave mutters. Kurt doesn't hesitate this time, but he hears him go mmm.
After a couple more minutes the stinging in his face stops, and he starts to dry. He stands, preparing to retreat to the outside world (and perhaps see to it Evans gets his just desserts), but then the same soft hand meets his shoulder. He shudders, doesn't move.
"I don't like you, Karofsky," Kurt explains, slowly, calmly, "but I wish to help you." Dave turns around and meets Kurt looking up at him (sofrickingshort) expectantly.
"How?" he asks.
.
The stars are all so, so bright up above – they're painted against the navy sky with glowing yellow, and the moon is full, a sign of something crazy. Below the beauteous stars Lima rests, aglow with porch lights and gas stations and (yes) a 7-11 perched close by. But even as the two opposites meet on the horizon, they all contain tranquility – a beauty uncommon.
Dave doesn't know how he became such a sissy.
Kurt stands next to him, twiddling his thumbs behind his back, and stares upwards. His mouth is cricked upward into a goofy smile. Dave doesn't smile – but he keeps on staring.
"I came here when I first knew," Kurt starts, quietly – his voice still seems to disturb the pleasant night air. (It blinks 11:08 on Dave's watch; a little late, yes, but Kurt insisted.) "We used to come up here for picnics when I was younger – and it's the first place that came to mind. I snuck out and just…laid here, looking up. I don't know, it's silly but – it helped me to realize…everything would be alright if I was this way." Dave looks over at Kurt: the boy has tears in his eyes, wet and unwilling to fall. It almost opens something up in Dave's heart (but he sews it shut again).
"Don't go crying on me, Hummel." he says. Kurt squeezes his eyes shut, maybe mildly offended, and looks off into the distance yet again.
Dave chews on his lower lip, eyes tracing the outline of the 7-11. An idea (he knows it's a bad one) pops into his mind, and since he's never been good with controlling himself, he utters "Sit tight" and runs down. Kurt watches him as he hurries down the hill, into the store, and then hurries back up, this time a case of something his hand.
"Oh, goodness no!" Kurt says, "I'm not chugalugging alcohol!"
"Why not?" Dave counters, "Come on, I heard about that party Berry threw – where you all got wasted."
"I was a designated driver, thank you very much." Kurt crosses his arms. Dave smirks.
"Look, Hummel, let's not make this a bad night. Just sip on one – get a taste. Live." Kurt huffs angrily, and yet removes a bronze bottle from its slot.
Soon enough the entire six bottles are empty and littering the ground; Hummel's giggles mingle with hiccups as he sways dangerously, waving his arms around like nothing. Dave's learned to handle his booze far better (besides, he was only able to nab two bottles) and he can still see clearly and function regularly – for the most part, that is.
Kurt's manicured fingernails dig into his arm, his face mashed into Dave's letterman jacket sleeve. "And she said…oh, geez…she…oh…!" He gurgles his words, teetering right, tottering left, and it's really hard to understand the story he's telling, or if it's even true. It's obvious he shouldn't drink, ever again, because he's way too intoxicated to do anything.
"Hey, slow down there, kiddo," Dave jokes (because he's still a bit wasted himself). "You've had one too many beers." Kurt tilts his head back and laughs, screechy and shrill. His nails delve even deeper into Dave's flesh and his head bangs his shoulder.
"So…funny…" he hiccups. He leans against Dave again, eyelids fluttering shut, and purrs something. It causes Dave to shiver – and he knows it's not the alcohol forcing him to.
They meet each other's eyes, then; Kurt's are bright and blue, even with the shadow of his eyelids over them. Dave's not quite sure how his look: a mysterious, rapturous green, or sinister and cold, filled with odium?
The bright blueness disappears suddenly as Kurt's eyes snap shut again – Dave follows suit, and he's one hundred-percent sure it's the alcohol acting up as he feels lips crush against his. It's blissful and rough, like and unlike their first, except they're both more keen to it. Dave swallows up as much as he can, and he's not the one who pulls away, but he is the one who pulls them down on the grass.
They lie there, panting and staring up. Dave's vision blurs together and his lips tingle with exhilaration; he's thankful the beer is slowing him down or else it would just be a rerun of so many months ago. He just lies there instead, feeling the rise and fall of one small boy's chest close to his. It should be wrong – always wrongwrongwrong – but instead, and it may still be the booze, it's right.
Kurt's fingertips trace Dave's wrist, where his watch lays. "'Leven-'leven…" he mumbles, and indeed 11:11 shines bright in neon green. "Make wish…" He shuts his eyes tight, lips pursing. Dave shuts his too.
(One…two…three…done.)
"What you wish for?" Kurt asks. Dave shakes his head, can't tell you.
I wish this wouldn't be so scary, he thinks to himself.
.
He's gone by the next morning.
Not just physically gone, but somehow emotionally as well. He's mindless – a body walking around, the soul detached, the mind unthinking. Only one thought runs through his brain, and it repeats itself to the point where he's desensitized to it. A kiss. A first kiss.
He presses his forehead against the cool glass, his good eye peering in at all the cases of Budlight. They cursed him. No, they didn't, but he can't blame it on himself – because that would be too painfully true.
The bell over the door rings, and for some reason he turns sharply around – maybe he's easily frightened now, maybe he's too hung-over, or maybe he can tell Babyface's footsteps from a mile away.
"Get away." he commands. The boy takes a step back; the fear is once more in his eyes, and Dave – well, Dave doesn't care at all anymore. "Get away, you fairy, I said get away!"
"It's a free country," Kurt interjects, so softly his lips barely move, "and a public drugstore." His eyes flicker to the greasy-looking man monitoring the counter, taking a drag, and watching them intently. At Kurt's gaze he snarls once, and then leaves.
"Just…just get away from me." Dave demands.
"I can't leave this hanging in the air – " Kurt begins.
"Get away!" He smashes his fist into the display, knocking over multiple packages of Twinkies. His feet come down on them hard, squirting the white foam out and over the nice clean tiles. His head his pounding – that white foam is turning red. Go away, red, go away, nothing good comes of that color.
"And forget this ever happened?" screams Kurt, "Look, we – we were drunk and foolish and kissed, okay, nothing matters!"
"Everything fricking matters, Hummel!" Red. "I don't wanna be gay! I'm not – I don't wanna!"
"You are what you are, Karofsky. And I just don't want to wave this thing away like nothing."
Redredredred. Dave holds his head, presses his fingers against his temples in frustration. RedredredRED. He approaches the smaller boy, footsteps loud and clunky. RedredREDRED. Suddenly he grabs him by the throat, hands snaking around; the fear is strong again in crystalline blueberries. RedREDREDRED. "I should kill you, Hummel." he whispers, fingers tightening ever so slightly. REDREDREDRED. Instead, he kisses him.
Red, fading.
It's grand for a full four seconds before Kurt pushes him off (remember a day?), yells something that sounds like "what's your problem" but faintly like "what's my problem" as well. Dave keeps his hands at his throat – his fingers shake, curl around, but not to harm. He's harmed too much.
He only lets go because Kurt slinks away, his neck going away with him. Dave curls his fingers into fists, and hangs his head like a sad, misbehaved puppy who's in for a beating.
"You need to stop this!" Kurt hisses, "Stop…stop it all! I – I hate you!" It's a silently whizzing bullet of a word, and it blows up upon impact. He wants to say the same, spew hatred and drop a word beginning with f far worse than "fairy," but then he'd be calling himself that – he'd be hating himself.
(Besides, he doesn't hate Fairy Hummel anyway – which terrifies him to his very core.)
Upon impulse, Dave wheels backward and punches Kurt upside the head. Kurt staggers and falls back, cracking his head against the foam-covered ground. Blood is around his ear and he might be yelling – he might be crying. Dave can't stand to stay anymore because it's all too much.
He runs outside, and into the street.
And the car doesn't see him.
.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
No one leaves flowers by his hospital bed.
.
One flower rests on his grave.
But it's a dandelion, so it doesn't even count.
.
So...bad? Good? In-between? Or do you not give a rat's hat?