Your name is Dave Strider, and you do not look good in a fluffy pink tutu. You are confused, what the hell does that have to do with anything? You need more information before this confusing statement can make any sense. You go back to the beginning.
Your name is Dave Strider and you fucking hate the sun right now. The moment you pry open your sleep encrusted eyes it becomes clear that the sun's goal in life is to cause you immense sadistic pain in your retinal areas. Groaning, you close your eyes, denying that evil cosmic fireball the ability to enact its cruel torture. You roll over to further stick it to the sun, but that plan does not go as awesomely as you expected. You shortly find yourself in the domain of gravity, before the bitch throws your ass out and you end up sprawled out on the floor.
The change of scenery has provided you with the great discovery that you feel like a totally un-cool sack of shit. The Sahara has decided to take up lodgings in your throat and there's a fucking drum line beating away in your head heralding its arrival. You crack open one of your eyes, to take in your surroundings.
Holy crap.
Hurricane Fuck-This-Shit looks like it just wreaked havoc on the once immaculate hotel room. After much struggle, you stagger to your feet to take in the damage. A variety of trash and debris cover the floors and various surfaces. The curtains hang half ripped from the windows, which explains the invasion from the sun.
There is a sea of empty liquor bottles strewn about, which explains your current uncool biological state. As you stagger around what was once the living room of your hotel suite, it occurs to you that you have no fucking idea how any of this happened. You have had your fair share of hangovers, but this has reached levels beyond the Sunday morning headache. You let out a pained sigh. When you rub your eyes you become aware of the lack of a barrier between your hands and your face. You are not wearing your shades. You don't know where they are.
Oh hell no.
Slowly, you search your way through all the shit in search of your beloved eyewear. While searching you find the room's other occupants. You chuckle quietly at the sight of a certain foul-mouthed rage machine passed out under the kitchen table, snuggling a plastic lawn flamingo like it was his soul mate. You still have one foot in drunken dreamland, and so you don't even question where he got a plastic flamingo, or why he has a black eye that would make Rocky look like a wimp. The urge to snap a picture of the unconscious dude calls to you, but your shades are more important, and you don't remember where your phone is anyway.
Speaking of which, you do find your shades, but in the worst of places.
"Dude, not cool!" You do not appreciate being forced to snatch your awesome shades away from a polka dotted fuckass who was using them as a chew toy. Said polka dotted fuckass tries to take them again to which you kick him in his side.
"Fuck you dude!" Neither your words nor your kick even stirred him. He just whines in his sleep and flops onto to his stomach, burying his face in a pillow with half of its feathers spilling from the case.
You shake your head and wipe the clown spit from your shades before restoring them to their proper place on your face. You give yourself a mental pat on the back for making that unintentional survey the scene once more, taking into account the room and your passed out companions, before laughing to yourself.
"Wow." You shake your head in amazement. "Egbert sure does throw a good party." In actuality, it was you who arranged this little shindig, but since the party was in your friend's honor you felt like being a generous dude and give him some praise. You still can't remember a damn thing, but you have a feeling that it was awesome.
When you heard that your pal John's 21 birthday was coming up you knew you had to get in on that shit. Like the awesome fucker that you are, you hopped on a plane all the way from Texas to Washington with plans to give your bro the best birthday ever. Daddy Egbert already had a big day planned on his actual birthday, but you convinced the old guy to let you have John for a couple days prior to give him a Strider style celebration. What did that entail?
A weekend in Vegas of course!
Indeed, you didn't even tell your chums the destination until you were rolling up to the airport. It was all expenses paid, courtesy of you. You could afford sending all four of you since the cash you earned from selling merch from your comics is through the metaphorical roof, not to mention your rising career as a club D.J. You can buy anything you want, really.
You vaguely wonder where on earth John is, but the call of your bladder is singer a louder tune. You make your way into the bathroom, too focused on your mission to bother taking in the condition of the room. It's probably just as messed up the rest of the place.
As you conduct your business, a noise breaks through your still hung-over stupor. The sound is strangely animalistic, equestrian if you will. It is also coming from your right. You're not really thinking as you turn towards the noise. What you see definitely gets your brain running.
"What the-?!" Your heart almost busts through your chest Kool-Aid man style when you see that there is a fucking horse in the bathroom. In record time you zip up your pants and back up into the corner by the door and away from the horse. Actually, it looks more like one of those miniature ponies you see at petting zoos, the little shaggy ones with the stumpy legs and stuff, but that is not the point. The point is that there's a friggin' four-legged hoof-beast residing in your bathroom. You wait for the animal to do something, but it appears to be occupied by the hay that is also on the floor.
"Uh…" Your typically artful tongue fails you at the moment. You confused utterance arouses the attention of the pony, which turns its head at you, mouth full of hay.
"Um...nice horsey?" you say. The pony does not appreciate your diplomacy and lets out a loud neigh.
"Whoa there," you respond with your hands up in a surrendering manner.
"Let's just calm down okay-" The pony snorts angrily and stands on its hind legs. You take this as your cue to get the heck out.
"Guys!"
= BE THE FLAMINGO GUY
Your name is Karkat Vantas and you FUCKING HATE LIFE RIGHT NOW!
You surface to the waking world with an angry grumble rumbling from your throat. You hate mornings, among other things, so much so that even your first action after waking is pissed off. You peel your face off the ground, finding that your cheek had stuck to the tile floor overnight. Rubbing your reddened skin, you look down and wonder what you were holding. You are confused by the presence of the plastic bird, and scowl at the thing. The painted black eyes stare back at you, beady and emotionless. You push it away and go to sit up. A stream of curses escapes your mouth when you smack the top of your head on the bottom of the table. The lightheadedness that follows makes you lose your balance and sends you back to the floor, where your face gets smushed into the flamingo's head. Once again the flamingo's eyes stare at you, like it's judging you and your lack of grace. Fuck that bird and its judgments!
You crawl out from under the table, much like an angry cobra that just got a speeding ticket. Like one of those where you were just going like two friggin' miles over the limit, but officer McFuckass is treating it like you were auditioning for The Fast and Furious.
Yeah, one of those.
You realize that the table is not the only cause of the pains in your head. In fact, you feel like complete shit. You express your anger by reaching for the plastic bird and chucking it a random direction.
Apparently that random direction is the resting place of one of your fallen companions. You hear the sound of plastic hitting noggin followed by a startled 'Honk!'
"Hey, get your clown ass up you idiot," you growl. Normally you'd be screaming by now, but the hammering in your head and your scratchy throat object to such an idea. Still, you sound just as ticked at the world as ever. You hear a moan and watch the idiot sit up. The guy gets up like a freakin' mummy. He slowly rises up with his arms extended, waving aimlessly in the air like he's trying to grab something; he even groans like the undead.
"Not cool bro," he sighs, rubbing the spot where the flamingo hit his head.
"Shut up, I am so not in the mood right now," you snap. You cradle your aching head, resisting the urge to puke. You cannot believe how hung-over you are. You know very well that you can't hold your liquor, which is why you hardly drink. You try to remember how these fuckers convinced you to drink so much, but the memories elude you. There is an intense throbbing on your right eye and you brush your fingers over the skin.
"Fuck!" you hiss when pain blossomed under your touch.
You hear snickering.
"Bro...your eye's like...a blueberry."
"Shut up," you growl. You find a metal baking pan on the floor and bring it up to your face. It's not the best reflective surface and your image is a fuzzy blur, but you definitely see a dark splotch where your eye should be.
"What happened?" you wonder to yourself.
"Guys!" Startled by the scream, you jump and drop the pan. The sound of the metal clanking against the tile hits your ears like whatever left the bruise on your eye.
"Arrgh!" You groan while rubbing your temples.
"Dudes!" You see Strider come bounding down the hallway. He runs so fast that he almost runs straight over a couch that had been pushed in the middle of the hall. He pushes the couch out of the way with a strong kick. He catches his breath while jerking a thumb behind him. "Do you know what's in there?" he pants.
"What in where?" You are not in the mood for Strider's crap, and you voice shows it.
"In the bathroom!"
"What about it?"
"There's a fucking horse in the bathroom!"
You make a snort of derision. Obviously the blond is either still drunk as hell, or is trying to take advantage of your current state and screw with you.
"Yeah right," you scoff.
"I'm serious man. There is a four-fucking-legged hooved mammal, and it's in our bathroom."
"Strider did you steal from that asshole's stash or something?"
"Better not have! That shit's motherfuckin' pricy!" You hear from across the room.
"Just look!" Strider tells you. You really don't want to move right now, in fact you'd much rather curl up into a ball and die, but if it will get Strider to shut up it seems worth it. Besides, since it's starting to feel more and more likely you are about to hurl, might as well do it in the bathroom.
You support yourself on the table while you get up, and pick your way through the destroyed room to the hall. Your flash a glare at Strider for no real reason, but you can't read his expression due to those stupid shades of his. You are pretty much diagonal the whole walk to the bathroom, leaning against the side of the wall as your feet drag across the floor. You bump into a painting but you don't give a crap. You hear it fall on the ground with a clatter, but you give it no sympathy.
Blearily, you open the bathroom, already thinking of the specific and detailed way you want to tell Strider to go to hell. You were not expecting to come face to snout with a sand colored pony.
"What the hell?!" You slam the door shut and stomp back into the living room.
"Strider why in the EVERLOVING FUCK is there a horse in the bathroom?!"
"I don't fucking know!" the blond retorts.
"Oh my head," The world starts spinning again and you plop onto the ground.
"I know dude," Strider sympathizes. The thought of Strider showing pity for you pisses you off, but there are bigger matters at hand. You get a feeling in your stomach like it's doing somersaults and you know what's about to happen.
"G-get me a trashcan," you stammer while holding a hand to your mouth.
"God dammit don't do it man," Strider warns you, but he still hands you the requested wastebin. You can feel it coming and hear Strider curse.
"Man if you start pukin' I'll start pukin' and-"
You ignore the blond in favor of retching into the trashcan. The noise you make it one of the ugliest noises you've ever heard yourself make. The heaving is the worst part, and you feel your muscles contracting against your will, as if you've been possessed.
"Jesus…" You look up and see Strider's looking away with a green tint to his face.
"Fuck...you," you manage to say before you start vomiting again. You take some satisfaction in the blond's discomfort. Once the contents of your stomach have been emptied, you sit back and try to catch your shaking breath.
"Dude we got so wasted last night."
"Thank you Strider. Thank you for that WORLD-SHATTERING REVELATION! WOW WHERE WOULD WE BE WITHOUT YOUR FUCKING BRILLIANT INSIGHTS! THE FUCKING WORLD IS FOREVER CHANGED BECAUSE OF THAT FUCKING BRILLIANT FACT YOU HAVE BROUGHT TO OUR ATTENTION!"
"Geeze calm down man. Your Kankri is showing."
"YOU SHIT-EATING PIECE OF-!" Strider's comment has sent you into a rage. You're like friggin' Poseidon with the profanity storm you're brewing up. You don't even care that your own loud voice is making your ears ring. Strider keeps retorting with his aloof ironic comebacks that only fuel your screaming.
"Hey bros." You and the blond pause your verbal strife and turn to the room's third occupant.
"I can see that y'all are up and busy with your motherfuckin' fightin', but I think we're missing a motherfucker."
You're about to tell him to shut up, when you realize that he's right.
"Where the fuck is John?" you asked angrily.
"I don't know," replies Strider.
"Well let's find him!" The fact that John has yet to investigate the commotion you three have been causing means that he's probably still asleep, and you intend to wake his ass up and make him suffer along with the rest of you.
"I bet he's in his room," Strider says as he makes his way down the hall towards the bedrooms. The idea of John getting to sleep away in his cozy-ass master bedroom while you're still stiff from sleeping on the ground irritates you.
"He's not in here!" Strider calls from down the hall.
"What the heck?" You go ahead and check the other bedrooms, expecting to see the nappy headed guy in one of the beds, or on the floor. When you find the other bedrooms empty you become more suspicious.
"Is he in here?" Strider asks from the doorway.
"No."
"Dammit, where is he?" Strider begins to call out John's name as he re-searches every room.
"John?"
"John?" You here panic start to form in Strider's normally even voice.
"John where the fuck are you?" you call while aiding in the search that was growing more frantic.
There was the living that connected to the kitchen, four bedrooms with adjoining bathrooms, and a balcony connected to the master suite, but you and Strider can't find John in any of them. By now both you and Strider are running around the hotel suite screaming John's name like a bunch of squawking hens, not that you really care how unmanly you sound. You don't even notice that Clowny McStoned-Fuck hasn't even gotten up to help you guys.
= BE CLOWNY McSTONED-FUCK
That's not your real name, though according to Karkat it might as well be. Your name is Gamzee Makara and you are watching your friends running around like squawking hens. You don't really know what they are so freaked about. Like the chill mother-fucker you are, you let your mind wander and do its own thing. The room's a mess, but you don't really care. You're a naturally cluttered dude, and just let the stuff decide where it wants to be. Organizing goes against the flow of the universe man. Since you are in a constant state of inebriated enlightenment, the hangover doesn't hit you as hard as your compadres. Still, your head is a little achy and you could really use a drink of something. Preferably faygo. You must have had a whole lot of something to get you to even feel the hangover, but you don't ponder that for long. From the mirror on the wall you can see that your appearance is less than miraculous. You wicked clown makeup is all smeared up, and there little spots of skin showing from where it had peeled off. You wild black hair is an even bigger rat's nest than usual, and you're pretty sure that there are things in it.
"Gamzee you fuck!" You hear the sound of Karbro screaming, so you turn to him.
"What's the matter bro?" You ask.
"Get your clown ass up and fucking help us!" he yells.
"Whatcha need?"
"Have you not been listening? We can't find John!" That isn't cool. A missing bro is not a good bro, and you can tell Karbro is on the verge of flipping his shit.
You hear the front door open and see Dave race in. You don't even remember him leaving the hotel room. Now that you think about it, your thoughts are even more muddled than usual.
"Well?" Karkat asks impatiently.
"I checked the front desk and they said they didn't see John leave. I checked everywhere else too but I got zip."
"Jeagus," Karkat begins to pace. "Where the fuck could he be?"
"Right now I'm just wondering what the hell happened last night," Dave replies. He gestures to the destroyed room.
"Seriously, what happened?"
"I don't remember!"
"Neither do I."
"I'm also empty in the think-pan brothers," you throw in.
"Shiiiiiiiiit!" Karbro's pulling at his hair, which you know is not good.
"Hey bro, let's just motherfucking chill for a sec." You go to stand so you can calm down your bro, but the action triggers a surprising pain in your side.
"Honk!" You lean over the couch letting the furniture support you.
"The fuck's wrong with you?" Karkat's at your side helping you stand.
"There's a pain game going on in my motherfuckin' side," you say while he leads you to the other side of the couch. He sits you down and is pulling your shirt up. Your lower torso is wrapped in bandages, which are not very white anymore.
"What the heck Gamzee?!" Karkat yells as he unwinds the bandages.
"What?"
"Did you fucking get shot?"
You think for a second, but no memory of that kind appears. "I don't fucking remember."
"There is a bullet hole in your side!" Karkat exclaims. You look down where your bro had uncovered the bloody hole in your flesh. You blink.
"Well fuck, I guess I got shot."
Karkat slaps his face. "How. The fuck. Do you not remember. GETTING. SHOT?" he seethes between his fingers.
"I ain't rememberin' much of anything right now," you admit. Karkat was letting loose some dying whale noises when Dave comes back into the room. Once again, when did that fucker leave the room?
"What's wrong with Vantas-whoa." You see the blond's eye brows rise over his aviators.
"The hell happened to you man?"
"Gamzee got shot," Karkat answers for you.
'I guess that explains this." You notice that Dave had brought with him a wheelchair.
"Where did you find that?"
"Found it in John's bathtub."
"Great, first a horse in the bathroom, now a fucking wheelchair in the other bathroom."
"Whoa man!" You jump up in excitement.
"There's a motherfuckin' horse in the bathroom."
"Yes Gamzee, we already went over that," Karkat sighs. You aren't really paying attention now. You just want to see a fuckin horse.
"Motherfucking sweet!" You cry as you race down the hall.
= BE KARKAT.
Your name is Karkat Vantas and your best friend is an idiot.
"Gamzee wait!" You call, but the clown is already down the hall.
"How the heck can that dude run after being shot?" Strider asks.
"I don't know! The moron's so baked I'm surprised he even felt it." You throw your hands up in exasperation. All of this shit is really wearing down what little nerves you possess. You hear Gamzee yell and then the clown is running back to the living room.
"That thing's awesome!" Gamzee grins.
"Yeah, yeah," you dismiss his rambling.
"Same with those squid things."
"Yeah, yea-wait what squid things?"
"The pony man. He got some little squidy friends chillin' in the tub. All swimmin' and shit."
You have no idea how to respond. There's a chance this is just one of Gamzee's pot induced hallucinations, but more likely there's going to be a bunch of "Squidy friends" in your tub. You opt not to check.
"We need to get our shit straight," says Strider.
"Yeah," you respond, for once agreeing with him.
"We need to figure out what happened last night and how we're going to clean all this up." Strider grimaces at the room. "'Cause I gotta feeling the hotel ain't gonna like this. But most importantly we need to find John."
The thought that should have occurred earlier now graces you with its presence.
"Call him," you tell Strider.
"Shit, why didn't I think of that?" Strider fishes his phone from his pocket and quickly dials John's number. He puts the phone to his ear and you stand there with him while you wait for John to pick up. Strider starts tapping his foot while the quiet sound of ringing goes on. He stops and lets out a sigh of relief, indicating John picked up.
"Hey man, where are you?"
"Right fucking here, my shaded brother." You heard the response and not through the phone. You and Strider turn around.
"Gamzee?" You find Gamzee holding a familiar cellphone.
"Hey bro," Gamzee says into the phone, despite the person on the other line being in the room.
"Where did you get that?" You stomp over to him and snatch the phone away.
"In here." Gamzee pats the slashed up pillow that he'd been sleeping on. A bunch of feathers fly out and hit you in the face. You're spitting feathers out of your mouth and swat away the accursed things.
"Great, the moron doesn't have his phone." you gripe. "Now how are we supposed to find him?"
"I don't know," Strider replies. "But we need to find out where now. I swear if Rose knew…"
You can't see his eyes, but you know that they must be wide as dinner plates. You too feel your eyes widen in fear.
"Shit…" Dread sweeps over all three of you at the thought of that name, and who it belongs to.
"Rose." You all say in unison, and it might as well have been the sound of death.
Rose had been totally against this little venture Strider cooked up. She became immensely against this venture once she found out Strider planned to take them to the "Intoxicated Idiocy capitol of the world," as she put it. But because John was so excited about it, she allowed it. She would have gone with you guys to babysit, because apparently you guys are pants shitting babies and she a mama bear. The reason she didn't was because she and Jade promised to help with setting up John's party back home with his dad. Still, she vowed to check in on you guys every day at the same time. Speaking of which…
You stiffen. "What time is it?!" After sifting through the room you find a working clock and almost have a heart attack at the time on it.
"It 9:59!" you screech. Rose said that she'd call at 10:00 and you know that she would be punctual as fuck about it. As the three of you scramble around trying to figure out what to do John's phone began to ring. You all jump and stare horrified at the handheld device. You look at Strider, since he's the poor bastard holding it.
"What do you want me to do?"
"Answer it!" you whisper, despite the person on the other line being incapable of hearing you.
= BE THE POOR BASTARD
Your name is Dave Strider and you might be dead in a minute. You look to Gamzee and Karkat, but it's clear you will have no help from them. You gulp, staring down at the phone, whose screen showcased a picture of a Rose along with the name of the caller. The name of the person that may be your undoing. You give a nod to your comrades, and see them eye you hesitantly as you click the button and press the phone to your ear.
You are calling upon all your skills to keep your voice sounding normal and relaxed.
"Sup?" That was good. The guilty wouldn't use such a casual and aloof greeting.
"Where is John?" She's getting straight to the point. Surely she cannot be suspicious already?
"He's taking a shower," you quickly lie.
"I see…" Damn, she's not buying it.
"I do recall John saying that he prefers showering in the evening." You are tempted to deter the conversation by questioning Rose's knowledge of John's showering habits and slide in the innuendo involved. But you know changing the subject would only put up more red flags.
"We...stayed out late last night." No man, never pause! Keep it smooth Strider. With your lie already established you let the details roll off your tongue without pause.
"By the time we got back he was tired and went straight to bed."
"Ah, that makes sense," Rose responds. "How long until he will be available for a conversation?"
"I don't know, he's just got in. But when he's out I'll tell him to call you." Hecks yeah, look at you and your slick self.
"Very well, and I assume that you four are behaving yourselves?"
"Yeah Rose we're having a wonderful and perfectly legal time."
"I see, and I don't suppose that you would be fine with disclosing the responsible and mature activities you have participating in?"
"I'd love to Lalonde, but I got to take a shit and get dressed." You wait for her to respond, and you feel like there are tendrils of suspicion and doubt seeping through your phone. Sometimes you think that Rose has supernatural powers along with her psycho-analyzing crap.
"Very well Dave, I expect an update later," Rose says.
"Don't worry, I'll tell Egbert to call you back."
"Good-bye."
"Later." The sound of Rose hanging up is the sweetest you've ever heard. You look at Karkat and Gamzee, who are staring at you with anticipation. You tell them the great news.
"She's slightly suspicious with a hint of doubt!"
You three start cheering like you just won the Super Bowl.