All Too Crumpled Trousers
A Tale of Harrowing Chicanery and Darkly Titillating Freudianism Involving Hippopotamic Ignoramus Hearts Boxcars, Harlequin of Ill Repute Gamzee Makara, and Brutish Synthetic Megalomaniac Arquiusprite
Chapter I
Our intrepid cretin, Hearts Boxcars, had recently turned an old business rival into organ laden viridian chili with his bare hands. It was a truly satisfying experience, one not incongruous in his mind with the soft touch of a loving but dangerous gentleman from the other side of the tracks, a phenomenon he had yet to experience. Boxcars extracted the wrath tub from his personal mysterious ether, and placed the particularly charming mace of his recently felled nemesis into its contours, gazing longingly at his copy of Red Cheeks magazine. It was his best kept secret that said periodical contained not the plump shimmering cheeks of the fairer sex, but that of the tenderest of gentlemen. The mace, made of cast iron enchanted with the felt's signature chronological bullshit, felt appropriately weighty and balanced in his hands as he placed it into the basin. His ebony carapace scintillated in the moonlight. He was so lonely.
Hearts' playing card buzzed to life behind him. He picked up the somewhat crudely foreshadowing Jack of spades from the tattered deck.
"What the fuck is it?" He muttered
"I need you in the main hallway now! I'm drowning in breakfasty felt here!" It was Spades Slick. He needed Hearts's help killing some simple paradox cloning goons, again. It secretly gave him Boxcars nigh endless pleasure that he was needed, but he would never tell Spades that. Oh, if only Slick (or he, for that matter) had working genitals.
"You got Eggs and Biscuits on you?! How the hell did you let that happen?" Hearts replied brusquely.
"They were on me before I could stab a single Scotty Dog!"
"Alright, goddamnit, I'll be right over"
The tragic behemoth performed a pathetic attempt at a sprint over to the yet uncontextualized "great hall" on his admittedly stubby legs. He exited the deep green tearoom and burst into the clock saturated antechamber. The exits, however, were not as he remembered them. Where before there were three adjacent doors, there was now a single picture window looking out upon a desolate, dusty expanse. In the distance, Hearts thought he could see a titanic felt woman, possibly made of metal. It beckoned to him platonically. He climbed out the window and waddled toward the mysterious female as if entranced..
Once outside, Our unlovable imbecile could begin to hear an acoustic guitar strumming lackadaisically in the background, soon joined by a lone yet chipper flute. When he heard it, he felt as if he was elevating slowly, or possibly waiting for medical treatment at some unimaginable alien healer's receptacle. These strange thoughts plagued him with almost the same frequency as his homoerotic desires. Hearts pondered the nature of his urges. In a world populated solely by crotchless thugs and abhorrently chronologically unstable leprechauns, would he ever find love?
If there was one thing to know about hearts Boxcars, it was that he hated time travel even more than he loved the masculine touch. Paradoxical mobility would consistently give him dreadful migraines, leaving him incapable of performing his three favorite acts, prying, smashing, and fantasizing about Gene Shallot, for days on end. It was for this reason alone that Boxcars could not take gleeful advantage of the leprechauns' notoriously substantial felatio cudgels and somewhat less notorious loose morals, pursuing clover relationships with wild abandon. He had long since become reserved to this fact, an issue that had brought him countess anguish in his youth.
As Hearts wandered further into the lifeless wastes, the music grew stronger. It was bringing out a mystifying cocktail of blinding rage and dubious arousal in him. The guitar would joylessly shift from major to minor chord, as if sonically brightening a trattoria long since abandoned for trendier and more convenient chain coffee shops. Hearts truffle shuffled quietly to noone in particular, smiling to himself. As he continued onward, his emotions grew stronger, until he couldn't decide whether he wanted to shatter the ground below him, or vigorously massage his disembodied prostate right in the monochromatic crater that was currently serving as his temporary resting place. He bent down to tie his nonexistent shoes. The music was now blaring in his ears, exacerbating both his flushed and caliginous desires
When he looked up, he nearly keeled from delighted shock. Before him stood a veritable tower of ashen flesh and orange sineal horn, garbed in the deep violet robes of a noble jester. attacked to his back were a pair of neon fairy wings, clearly made of cardboard.
"WeLl WhAt Do We MoThErFuCkInG hAvE hErE? honk honk," Gamzee swooned.
Chapter II
"I cAmE hErE eXpEcTiNg To FuLfIlL tHe RoLe Of MoThErFuCkInG cOmIc ReLiEf FoR oNe DeTeStAbLe YeT pLoT rElEvEnT cHeRuB, aNd HeRe I fInD tHiS sEnSuAl HeGeMoN… honk"
Hearts' caliginous desires evaporated from him like water based lubricant off the feverish back of an inebriated pool boy. Gamzee's Sensual violet robes fell upon him as if tailored by the mirthful messiahs themselves. The twinkle in his eyes screamed "I'm dangerous, but I can also have your boibies; if you want me too." Boxcars was in love.
Gamzee became erect like a fox, "sO wHaT bRoUgHt YoU tO tHiS mOtHeRfUcKiNg BaRrEn WaStE?"
"I WAS LOOKING FOR EGGS AND BISCUITES. Oh you don't know who they are, I'm just making a fool out of myself." Why was Hearts so bashful all of a sudden? He was always a leviathan who said what he wanted and got it. But this man; this sweet, tender man, made him freeze up like a baby in a bassinet full of Beatles.
"I kNoW wHo ThEy ArE," Makara replied. "ThE mIrThFuLl MeSsIaHs HaVe TaUgHt Me MaNy MoThErFuCkInG tHiNgS iN tHiS bArReN eXpAnSe. BuT yOu StIlL hAvEn'T tOlD mE wHo YoU aRe."
Boxcars's thoughts wandered back to his mother, his lovely, sexy, sexy mother. Could he finally find someone who loved him like she did? "I'm… Hearts Boxcars" Why was he telling this stranger all of this? Where was his dignity?
"YoU'rE tRyInG tO iMpReSs Me, MoThErFuCkEr. honk honk. ThErE's No MoThErFuCkInG nEeD."
What was this saucy peach's game? Was he waxing ashen? Caliginous? Dare he warrant, flushed? Oh the opportunities.
"The midnight crew is this cool gang of badasses who fight the felt who are green time traveling shitheads and our leader is named Spades Slick and he's very sexy and don't tell him that." Boxcars blurted
"OoOoOoOoOoH. A bAd BoY." Gamzee replied, rubbing his plump anuscushion with vigor. "I'm InTrIgUeD. honk honk"
Boxcars's masculine vapors were growing overwhelming. He couldn't hold back for much longer.
"I… Who are you," Hearts muttered, the sensual awe coming through in his voice.
"I cAn'T lEt YoU kNoW tHaT yEt; BuT i CaN tElL yOu OnE tHinG. tHe WoRlD iS fUlL oF mOtHeRfUcKiNg MiRaClEs. YoU jUsT nEeD tO fInD tHeM."
At that moment, as if by a sign from divinity, a frosted bottle of rich violet Faygo descended from Gamzee's miracle modus, and into the hands of our own elephantine Cassanova himself. Boxcars would treasure it forever.
"ArE yOu DoWn WiTh ThE cLoWn?" Gamzee whispered.
At that moment, hundreds of machine gun rounds plunged into the throbbing small of Boxcars's back in a completely discarnate and entirely unerotic fashion. The world went black around him.