He saw the way they looked at him in class. Their condescending eyes and condemning, 'everyone knows you did it' expressions. Every time he didn't fail a test, he must have cheated. Every time he picked Miles for his dodgeball team—even though the boy was absolutely horrid at it—it must have, somehow, been for his own benefit. Every time he laughed at someone else's mistakes, it couldn't possibly have been the fact that he was a nine-year-old boy from a broken home who didn't know any better because his own parents took great pleasure in mocking his shortcomings.
Because when something smells, it's usually the Butz.
No one was shocked when he dropped out of high school. It was probably expected, come to think of it, and even if he had graduated, no one would have believed it was an honest accomplishment. So, of course, it also didn't surprise anyone when he was twenty-two years old and still living with his folks. People were impressed when he started bringing models home, but then he started getting dumped left and right, and the natural balance of the universe was restored. Everyone let out a deep sigh of relief.
Because when something smells, it's usually the Butz.
The look on Phoenix's face when he heard about the murder accusation was priceless. Not that he saw it, but he didn't really need to; those kinds of looks were etched into his memory long ago. Why would Phoenix react any differently just because they were friends?
In fact, he wasn't sure why Phoenix took the case at all. He knew he was innocent—clearly, because he was himself—but he wasn't entirely sure why Phoenix thought he was. But for some reason, Phoenix stood by him until the end and got him an acquittal. He appreciated that, but he didn't pay Phoenix. After all, he didn't have any money, and why would Phoenix expect payment from him anyway?
Phoenix should have known that when something smells, it's usually the Butz.
He kept on living life, and his friends would listen to his sob stories when they had to, wearing masks that varied anywhere between boredom and irritation, silently begging him to shut up. He only shrugged it off, completely used to it at this point. That look never changed when he spoke to them.
Because when something smells, it's usually the Butz.
It was ridiculous to think that sometimes he thought about getting two jobs to see if he could make it on his own, only to chicken out because he knew he wasn't good enough. It was even crazier to believe he had dated more than one serious, down-to-earth girl, only to walk away because, next to an intelligent and hard-working woman, he felt like trash. It was unfathomable that he couldn't hold a steady job because no one had ever showed him how. Perhaps the most insane, however, was the idea that any of those problems ever frustrated him to tears.
After all, when something smells, it's usually the Butz.
He wasn't surprised when he heard the guilty verdict. He had robbed a bank to try and make ends meet, and he knew it. Why Phoenix offered to be his attorney, he didn't know. Phoenix hadn't even tried to use the Magatama to see if he was lying, he just instantly assumed it couldn't have been him. How stupid can one guy be?
He let them cuff his hands, glancing briefly at his childhood friends as he was pulled from the room. Miles was standing behind his desk, papers hanging loosely in his hands, jaw on his chest. Phoenix looked even more horrified, and he slumped against the desk, holding a hand to his head and searching the evidence for anything he might have missed before finally lifting his gaze and silently begging for an answer. 'Why?' the eyes asked. 'Did you do this?'
But he didn't understand. What part of the situation didn't they get? Why were they so dumbfounded? It was so obvious, so natural, so predictable. It was just how the world was supposed to be, and they knew better than anyone else that when something smells…
It's always, always, always… The Butz.