Since finishing the game session, Dave Strider tried his best to just take it easy, and tried to return to a life of "normalcy", or as close to normalcy as he could get. Which was no simple task, mind you, especially without Bro being around, the one who had provided for him his entire life. With Bro gone, quite simply, he was bored. Without Sburb, he was bored. He needed something to occupy his time; to occupy his mind. He had filled his schedule to the brim with raves to DJ at, a couple of dates, and one-night stand here and there. But if he wasn't playing music for the brightly dressed masses, or entertaining some stranger he had picked up from the bars he played at, he was writing. He had never enjoyed the hobby, but he did feel as though he had to write. Perhaps it was just to reset his mind. So that he could start anew.
He started with early memories. Bro teaching him how to wield a katana, DJ-ing at the middle school dance, Bro's idea of a Halloween prank, which involved hiding Lil' Cal in unnatural places, like his shower, or in the mailbox. They continued on from there. But he found that when he reached his Sburb session, when he spoke of the trolls, one in particular's name occupied most of the pages. Gamzee Makara. Why he remembered him the most distinctly was very unclear. It had been six years since he had last seen him. And even then, he had only seen and spoken with him approximately four other times. All of them involved spewing insults at each other. Even more ended with a violent battle for dominance over the other. But even those memories were vague. The last time they saw each other, they were both basking in the aftermath, panting heavily, when Gamzee said that he wanted to try living on Earth sometime.
Dave told him that that was a stupid idea. He'd stick out like a sore thumb. And he would never escape the disapproving stares from worried eyes, no matter where he went. Dave knew that. Gamzee did not. He had just finished writing this memory, when his pen snapped like a twig between his fingers. A glut of black ink had fallen on Gamzee's name, smudging it, making it illegible. He tossed the pen to the carpet, and wiped the ink smeared across his hand on his pants, sighing as he checked the time. It was about a good ten minutes before he had to pick up his date for the night. Who was she again? Maybe it was Amy or Olivia, or something along those lines. He couldn't quite remember. Either way, the name didn't matter to him. Names were trivial matters. But her name would probably be pretty important for tonight, if he was to obtain his objective.
As he snapped his red suede jacket straight, he tried to remember everything they had told each other in the short time they conversed at the bar. All he could remember were the negative aspects. Bipolar, multiple-personalities disorder, charged with attempted murder, imprisoned three times for possession, and has been in and out of rehabilitation centers. Okay, so she was a little quirky.
Ah fuck, who am I kidding? he thought, she's fucking crazy. And what did Bro always say about lunatics? "Don't stick your dick in crazy", right? But crazy it seemed, was all he craved after being with Gamzee. And it was all his fault. He looked nice for throwing something together at the last minute. Red suede jacket, black converse and pants, a tee-shirt patterned like a tux, and of course, his sunglasses. He opened the door to the jet black Mercedes, twisting the key in the ignition, and taking off down the backstreets. He hoped that they would take him to the right place. Truthfully, he didn't remember her address either. It seemed like the more memories he wrote down, the more he forgot. The memories stuck in his mind, instead of fading. Well, it's great to know the therapy's working, he commented to himself sarcastically. As he was thinking, he felt the car lurch. The lurch was accompanied by the sound of metal squealing against metal, the shatter of glass, and a sickening crunch.
He had to remind himself to loosen his grip on the steering wheel, and he turned his head slowly to see the dumb-ass who had rear ended him. But it was much more than that. The purple monster truck with the lime green flames and tinted windows was resting comfortably on top of the trunk of the glossy Mercedes. Both headlights of the giant vehicle were out.
"…You fucking dip shit…" he seethed to himself, throwing open the door. A piece of glass had lodged itself in his shoulder somehow. He felt his temper boiling, but he masked it with a cool and calm facial expression, completely devoid of emotion.
"You do realize both of your headlights are out, right?" he asked sarcastically.
"Oh damn, sorry brother, I meant to get them all up and fixed today. I'm still trying to get the hang of this miraculous mother-fucking machine."
Dave instantly recognized the loopy up and down, but low and husky voice, that was laced with a small laugh. His heart froze for a moment, and he wished that it had just remained frozen, because the second he was able to process what had just happened, his heart began thundering so hard he felt it in his throat. He could swear the other could hear it.
"Why don't you come over hear so I can see your moronic self, Makara?" he said, voice a bit thinner than he intended.
"Sure thing brother." It was silent except for the sound of his rapidly beating heart, and the sound of his shoes crunching on the gravel of the road. In the faint glow of Dave's headlights, Gamzee's face paint looked as ghoulish as ever. Maybe even worse, considering the bit around the eyes were smeared to look like tears dripping down his white waxy face. At first, Gamzee was somewhat shocked to see the young Strider, but almost immediately, the surprised look was replaced by a look of smug satisfaction.
"Well if it ain't Dave mother-fucking Strider. This your piece of shit car?" the juggalo kicked the deflated tire of the half mutilated Mercedes. Dave swallowed hard.
"Yeah, it is. Did you know that I had to crack Bro's safe to get the money for this thing? And I've had it for two years? This thing probably costs more than your entire life." this was how most of their conversations started. And if this one was like other conversations previous to this, it would end in a brawl. And a brawl would end in aggressive displays of dominance. Dave didn't care what it would end in.
He had finally seen the crazy he craved.
"I doubt it man, that thing's the shittiest tin can I ever did see." Makara retorted, taking slow deliberate steps forward. Hesitantly, Dave began to match his stride.
"What, compared to that monster? Looks like you dug that out of a junkyard. Jesus, I bet you have more fleas than ever."
Gamzee smirked. They were mere centimeters away from each other. Gamzee was looking down upon him now, a complacent smile on his painted face.
"And what if I did? What's it to you, Str-" Dave cut him off with a brusque kiss. He pulled away after a minute, a smudge of white makeup on the corner of his mouth.
"It looks like the kind of thing only complete and utter assholes would drive." he said. Gamzee advanced slightly, steering him backwards, and towards the open door of Dave's half-crushed car. The juggalo's fingers found the other's belt loops.
"Takes one to know one, Strider. Tin cans like that make you look like a pussy." Gamzee growled, lips close to Dave's jugular vein. His teeth ghosted the sensitive flesh. The blonde had begun unzipping the other's jacket which was branded with the clown from IT. God, just like Gamzee to blow his money on something so stupid.
"I'd rather be a pussy than the biggest douche bag on the planet." Dave replied. Gamzee pushed him backwards, and Dave landed on the leather seat of the Mercedes. There was a slight smirk on his lips. His date would have to wait. He had found what he was looking for, and he wasn't about to just give it up.
"Just like a little bitch, Strider. You look like a mother-fucking high maintenance bitch in that thing." Gamzee said, straddling him. "You fuck like a bitch too, Strider? Do you match the mother-fucking image?" his voice had assumed a slightly higher pitch, and he tauntingly traced his long claws along the other's hips.
"Why don't you find out?" Dave replied. "Unless you're too much of a chicken-shit."
Gamzee smirked.
"We'll just motherfucking see."
Crazy seemed to fill him better than several nights of nonstop music, one-night stands, and all of the notebooks he had ever stashed under his turntables, all containing distant memories of his dead brother, and the juggalo called Gamzee Makara.
Looks like Bro was wrong after all.
Crazy was just mother-fucking fine.