Michael took a drag off his cigarette and turned to Henrietta. "Okay, Henrietta, your turn: marry, fuck, kill with Peter Murphy, Trent Reznor and Ian Curtis."
"Michael, that's fucked," Pete interjected from where he was sitting on her bed. He shook his head. "Ian Curtis has been dead for decades, have some respect."
Michael rolled his eyes. "Yeah, exactly. He died decades ago. It's not like it's too freaking soon or anything."
"Both of you shut up," Henrietta grumbled, taking a drag off the Djarum Black attached to her long cigarette holder and exchanging an exasperated look with Firkle who was on the floor beside her. Michael and Pete were always disagreeing over something, that being if goths were cynical or nihilistic (the answer was obviously nihilistic), whether Skinny Puppy had sold out (they hadn't and Henrietta would remain loyal to them until the day her heart stopped bleeding and blood spurted out her eyes), or if Edgar Allan Poe was the original goth kid or the original emo kid (goth kid, of course). "To answer your question, I would marry Ian Curtis, corpse or not, I would fuck Trent Reznor and I guess I'd have kill Peter Murphy," she said hesitantly, scowling. "He was cool in the 80s but now he's all into meth and shit. Wait, are we talking about him in the 80s or the present? You know what? Forget it, this is a stupid conformist game anyway," she scowled, taking another drag.
"Do you have something better in mind?" Michael scoffed. He had only suggested playing out of boredom. It was a Friday and night and they were all sitting in Henrietta's room, smoking and drinking black coffee out of her ebony mugs. Pete was originally supposed to have bought some absinthe from Kenny McCormick that one of Kenny's shady cousins had brewed, but Kenny had not come to school that day and apparently had not been home when Pete went looking for him there. Then again, that was typical of him, always disappearing, sometimes for days at a time. Not that the goth kids gave a shit about the conformist douchebag, but he was essentially their only source of absinthe, cigarettes and any other substances that were illegal for their own personal purchase, so it was a major inconvenience when he fucked off to wherever it was that he went.
"Well if fucking Pete over here had come through with the absinthe we wouldn't be having this problem!" Henrietta cried, throwing her hands up and shooting Pete an accusatory frown.
"I told you I couldn't find McCormick anywhere," he defended himself, glaring at her. "It's not my fault. It's like he fucking fell off the face of the earth or died or something!"
Firkle, however, interrupted the banter in a casual tone, unnervingly calm. "If you all don't stop arguing I am going to cut off your limbs one by one and feed them to your dying, bleeding bodies." Though he was the youngest and didn't speak up often, when he did, whatever words came out of his black lipped mouth were pretty much guaranteed to be the most hardcore shit any of them would hear all day.
"Dude…" Michael breathed, eyes widening, whether in admiration or unease it couldn't quite be determined.
Henrietta just let out a dry "hah" and ruffled Firkle's hair affectionately. She was the only one who never seemed daunted by Firkle's violent threats, though they were usually fairly intense, even by goth standards. "Hey, I know!" She said, suddenly brightening (or at least as much as she could brighten without showing any signs of lame conformist enthusiasm). "Last week I was in that antique shop on main street and–"
"Antique shop? You mean the thrift store? Don't tell us you're becoming one of the hipsters kids, now," Pete taunted, flipping his hair. He was, of course, referencing her brief transition into the emo subculture when they were young. It hadn't lasted long, but Henrietta hated being reminded of it.
She coloured underneath her makeup with embarrassment and crossed her arms. "Shut the fuck up, Pete. If you don't want to know what priceless and life-changing relic I found there, I won't fucking tell you." She pouted then inhaled deeply off the end of her cigarette holder and blew the smoke in his face.
Pete rolled his eyes. "Ugh, sorry," he muttered, trying to sound sincere, because he really was curious. "What did you find?"
She smirked triumphantly, rising from the floor and walking over to her bookshelf, long skirt trailing behind her. She dragged a pointed black nail along the spines of the books on it, reading the titles until she reached what she was looking for, standing in between the Necronomicon and an Edgar Allan Poe anthology. She pried it free and handed it to Pete.
"The Chthonic Grimoire of Spells, Incantations, Potions and Rituals for the Black Magick Neophyte?" Read Pete, raising his eyebrows and studying the worn brown cover.
"That's a freaking mouthful," commented Michael, taking a sip of coffee.
"So what's it for?" Pete asked, looking over at Henrietta.
She snatched book from him and returned to her seat on the floor beside a very intrigued looking Firkle. "It's a goddam spell book what does it look like?"
"It looks like a goddamn spell book, I guess," he shrugged. "Does it work?"
"Well we're about to find out, aren't we?" Her eyebrows knit and her face darkened deviously. "Who wants me to cast a spell on them first?"
Pete got up from where he was sitting on her bed. "I'll go," he said gamely.
"Okay," Henrietta nodded, opening the book to the table of contents and squinting her eyes at the ancient scrawl. "Hmm. Love spells, revenge spells, money spells, beauty spells, control spells…" She smirked. "Control spells, page 325. Those should be interesting." If Pete was nervous, he gave no indication. He stubbed out his cigarette in one of her ashtrays, hiked up his pants and moved to sit on the floor in front of her. "Let's start with something basic. How about a paralysis spell?"
Pete shrugged blandly. "Alright."
"Okay, so it says we need to put a burning candle between us and sit cross legged, Firkle pass me that red candle," she ordered, crossing her legs and arranging herself in front of Pete who did the same. "Now Pete, you have to close your eyes and lay your palms open and facing up on your knees and then when the spell is over I have to drip candle wax on them." He nodded his understanding and opened his palms.
"Alright, here we go…" Henrietta took a breath and began the chant in a low voice:
"Flow of rivers, flow of mists
Body shivers, body twists
Cosmos churn, planets turn
But you are still, for it's my will
Bones now lock, you cannot talk
Muscles fixed, become bewitched!"
As she spoke the final words she lifted the candle and tilted it over Pete's hands, allowing a small drop of hot wax to fall on each open palm. He did not move or jerk away, rather stayed seated and stared forward, unblinking. His chest didn't even rise and fall with his breath, though when Henrietta put a finger under his nose to feel for air and make sure that she didn't in fact kill him, even bursts of heat were coming out of his nostrils.
"Oh my god, nooo waaaayyyyy," gasped Michael softly, crawling from the bed and kneeling between Henrietta and Firkle to get a better look.
"I knew it would work," Henrietta bragged. Pete's bangs had fallen over his eye but he made no move to flip them out of the way as he normally would have done. Michael leaned in uncomfortably close to his face, but the boy didn't even flinch.
"How long does it last?" Asked Firkle, who also came closer and began poking at Pete in wonder.
"Until I revoke the spell," Henrietta explained, reading the book again. "There's a spell that invalidates the curse and I have to take the wax off his hands and then he should be able to move again. I guess I could bring him back now…"
"Wait, not yet!" Objected Michael with a smirk. "Lend me your eyeliner."
She gave him a confused look but reached over and took a stick of black liner from a nearby table and handed it to him. "What are you going to do, give him a goddamn makeover?" He took it from her and removed the cap, then began to draw a giant phallus crawling up the side of Pete's face. Henrietta rolled her eyes. "Really fucking original, Michael," she scoffed sarcastically.
He capped the eyeliner. "Shut up it's funny. Okay bring him back. I wonder if he was conscious the whole time?"
She shrugged and flipped the yellowing page of the book, then began to recite a similar spell which would bring him back:
"Flow of rivers, flow of mists
Body shivers, body twists
Cosmos churn, planets turn
Be not still, for it's my will
Bones unlock, you now can talk
Muscles unfixed, undone bewitched!"
She peeled the hardened wax from his hands and he immediately slumped forward, gasping. "Henrietta what the fuck!?" He cried, looking rattled. "I didn't think that would actually work!" Then he glared at Michael and began to rub at his cheek. "And of course I was fucking conscious. It was a paralysis spell, not a fucking comatose spell. My eyes were fucking open, I just couldn't move my goddamn arm to stop you from drawing on me, you immature prick." Michael put a hand over his mouth, trying to stifle his laugher at the now smeared dick on Pete's angry face.
"Do me next," Firkle spoke up, pushing past the two older boys to sit in front of Henrietta.
"Alright, but I wanna try a different spell. Hey, there's a truth one!" Firkle backed away anxiously at this. "What, don't tell me you're scared?" Asked Henrietta, raising an eyebrow. The small boy shook his head but didn't look too sure of himself.
"How does it work?" Michael asked, "Do you like, blurt out a bunch of shit? Or can you just not lie if someone asks you a question?"
She shrugged. "How should I know? There's only one way to find out." She didn't see what the big deal was. They were friends, right? Weren't friends supposed to feel like they could tell each other everything? Or maybe that was just for conformists.
"You're just saying that because you're the one reading the spell so you don't have to get bewitched or whatever," Pete argued, frowning.
"Fine then, I'll do it too, if that's what you've got your panties in a bunch over," she complied with a huff. "We'll all do it. Now can we get this going? Everyone sit in a circle." The others obeyed and she set the candle in the middle of the group. "Someone's gonna have to put the candle wax on my hands."
"I'll do it," offered Michael.
"Okay, here we go," she said, placing the book on the floor.
"Lies are cruel, lies are vile
Lies are for fools, lies beguile
Tell nothing false, your lips now true
Admit your faults, candor owns you
Lips become lax, tongue untied
Drip the wax, and no longer tell lies!"
Henrietta dripped the wax into the hands of her friends. Pete first, then Michael, then Firkle. They hissed at the burning, stinging sensation. "Do mine," she said to Michael, holding out her hands in front of him. He did. "I don't feel any different," she grumbled after a few seconds, disappointed.
"Maybe you have to wait for it to take effect?" Michael offered.
"Well Pete's paralysis happened right away," she began to argue, but was then immediately cut off by Pete himself.
"I think Skinny Puppy is overrated!" He cried, then clapped his hands over his mouth.
Henrietta gasped then glowered at him, face looking sinister over the light of the candle's flame. "What?! How dare you!"
"I sleep with a nightlight!" Michael exclaimed, turning red. "I'm afraid of the dark! Shit I didn't mean to say that. Yes I did! AHHH! What's happening?!"
"Well I still listen to Sunny Day Real Estate sometimes!" Henrietta suddenly blurted out, looking horrified at her own confession. "They're not even that emo. Yes they are. Oh my God! I can't stop talking!" She covered her mouth like Pete had done, trying to stop the humiliating admissions from coming out, but was unsuccessful. "I think Stan Marsh is really sexy even if he is a dumb jock," she mumbled through her fingers, eyes wide. "I like his hair!" She cried.
"Nooo waaaayyyyy!" Gasped Michael, raising his eyebrows in shock.
"I tried to poison my class with arsenic sugar cookies during last year's bake sale!" Firkle shrieked. The other three were immediately silenced and gaped at him in unison.
"Firkle what the fuck?" Pete spat, looking appalled.
"But I didn't use enough so they didn't die they just got sick and then I blamed it on Ike Broflovski!"
Michael shook him by the shoulders. "What?! Why?!"
"They're all nazi conformist cheerleaders! And I hate Ike… And-And I tried to stab my teacher with a switchblade!"
"What the FUCK, Firkle?!" Cried Henrietta.
Firkle was almost sobbing. "Take the curse off, Henrietta, take it off!" He pleaded.
"AHHH, okay! Hang on!" She fumbled with the spell book, not wanting to hear anymore. "Okay here it is, everyone pick off the wax when I'm done!"
"Twilight wasn't that bad!" Wailed Michael, pulling at his curls in despair.
"Kristen Stewart is hot!" Admitted Pete, nodding his head but looking equally distressed at what he was saying.
"EVERYONE SHUT UP!" Henrietta shouted before Firkle could confess to raping a fucking kitten or something. She frantically began chanting as quickly as she could:
"Lies may be cruel, lies may be vile
We may be fools, we may beguile
But telling false, with lips untrue
Hides your faults, deceit serves you
Lips not lax, tongue be tied
Shed the wax, resume the lies!"
With that they peeled the red wax from their palms, gasping with relief. "Holy shit," Pete muttered, shaking his head. Firkle sat wide eyed, staring ahead and refusing to look at anyone.
"Uhhhh, kid…" Michael said after a few moments when his breathing had slowed, looking over at him and saying what was on everyone's minds, "You can't just go around trying to kill conformists."
"Yeah," Pete agreed, "the point is to make life more miserable for them. How can they feel misery if they're like, dead?" Henrietta just sat there, for once shocked by something Firkle had said. She lit up a fresh cigarette with trembling hands and took a shaky drag. Firkle was silent for a few moments, and then he began to chuckle.
"What…?" mumbled Michael, looking bewildered. The small boy continued to laugh. He was now shrieking with hysterical laughter, in fact. Pete exchanged an uneasy glance with Henrietta. Was the kid completely off his rocker? Were they next on his murder list now that he'd found out they were too "conformist" to want to kill the actual conformists? He'd always been intense and kind of weird, even compared to the other goths but come on…
"Firkle what the fuck is going on?!" Henrietta cried, half angry, half fearfull.
He wiped the tears from his eyes and finally silenced his laughter, then scanned the group with a taunting grin that looked odd on his usually morose face and replied, "Aw man you guys, that was too funny."
"Huh?" Pete raised an eyebrow. "Funny? What do you mean 'funny'?"
"I wiped the wax off my hand before it dried, the spell didn't work on me," he giggled mirthfully.
Michael wasn't sure if he should be more taken aback by the fact that Firkle was freaking giggling, or the fact that… "Wait so you were fucking with us?!" He asked dubiously, eyes wide.
"So you didn't try to poison anyone or stab your teacher?" Henrietta asked, noticeably relieved.
"Nope," Firkle smirked, proud that he had fooled them.
"No waaaaayyy."
"So you were just trying to scare us, right?" Pete asked slowly, still processing what had happened.
Firkle nodded but Henrietta's eyes narrowed and she looked at him. "Hang on, are you sure that's what it was? A fucking joke? Or maybe you were scared of what you might have really said under the truth spell!" She accused, remembering his earlier reluctance to take part. Something in Firkle's eyes changed and they darted to the side guiltily.
"Dude… if trying to kill a bunch of people was what you made up to cover for the real thing then what's your actual secret?" Michael asked looking at him with a combination of awe and worry.
"Are you sure you want to know?" Firkle asked gravely, giving his friends a cryptic look. The three exchanged freaked out glances.
"I… I don't know. D-Do we?" Michael stammered, voice wavering. Firkle just stared, refusing to answer. "I-I guess not," Michael said carefully after a few seconds, looking at Firkle with a strange kind of respect. He really was hardcore. Mysterious too.
"You'd never do anything to us, right Firkle?" Henrietta asked, still a little nervous.
The small boy shook his head solemnly. "No."
"Well alright then…" She allowed hesitantly, picking the book up from where she had set it down on the floor in her panic. "But maybe that's enough spells for today." The others nodded in agreement. Somewhere along the line they had decided that it wouldn't do to discuss any of their embarrassing confessions. Besides, harbouring a crush on Stan Marsh or liking Twilight probably paled in comparison to whatever the fuck it was that Firkle had done.
"Wait, let's not be too hasty," Pete suddenly said, eyes lighting up. "Just because we're done with the spells doesn't mean we can't use them on those conformist douchebag Justin-and-Britney wannabes at school, right?" He smirked.
His sly grin spread onto the faces of Michael, Henrietta and finally Firkle as well. Michael nodded, "I like the way you think."
Henrietta flipped through the pages of the book with renewed vigour. "Hmmmm, there's an anti-beauty spell, I could use that to put warts all over Wendy-fucking-Testaburger's face!" She giggled gleefully. "Or there's a love spell I could use to make Principal Victoria fall in love with Mr. Mackey! That would be hilarious!"
"Hey, let me see that book," Pete urged, taking it from her hands. "It says here that you can use this chant to make someone your slave! They'd have to do whatever you tell them to. I bet we could get absinthe out of Kenny for free with that one!" Michael and Henrietta agreed eagerly.
Firkle, however, soon tuned out what the others were saying, satisfied that they had finally forgotten about his earlier "confessions." His secret was safe for now, he supposed. It had been a close call, but quick thinking and even quicker wax removal had saved him. He inwardly exhaled a sigh of relief at the fact that the other goths would never have to know that sometimes, when he was alone, he would lip sync to Celine Dion at full volume and dance around his room.
A/N
I don't know what the fuck this story is so please don't ask. Firkle just always seems so hilariously hardcore and he never gets enough fanfiction lovin' unless he's boning Ike or something so I created this odd piece.
Two side notes:
To be clear, I do in fact hold the belief that listening to Celine Dion is a much more deplorable thing to do than attempted murder. I will stand by that until blood spurts out my eyes.
Also, I'll probably be doing more with the goth kids when I'm done the main chapter-story-thinggy I've got going on right now because they're by far my favourite minor characters on the show.
I hope your day is filled with death and despair.