1988, Houston, Texas
Your name is Dave Strider and today is your fifth birthday. It is an especially important birthday because it signifies that you are old enough to wield your first katana, a milestone you have been looking forward too with equal amounts of fervor and trepidation. Bro assures you that everything will be fine, and though you think it's a little overkill you allow him to blindfold you for the ride to see your birthday surprise anyway. Your small, sweaty fingers are still tightly wrapped around Lil Cal's arm when the first speedbump sends your body lurching forward.
"You okay little man?" Bro asks, forearm pressing against your chest protectively. You nod and adjust the blindfold over your pointed shades.
By the time Bro removes the cloth the smell of popcorn has nearly given away the surprise. The Houston stadium towers before you, bright lights illuminating oversized letters that you can only just barely recognize. You tighten your fist around Bro's fingers as you lean forward to get a better look at one of the posters. You understand the words in your mind and of course you know how to sign it but your tongue still slips up when you try to sound it out.
"Maah-caar-aah," you say slowly. "Bruuh-oos," you finish in a quiet whisper. You silently form the sounds with your lips a second time before realization fully dawns on you. "Makara Brothers!" you announce in a hushed voice, rocking back on your heels in excitement. "They're really real?" you say in disbelief, staring up at the way the neon signs shine against the dark night sky. "And they're really here?" It's the most you've said all day and the conversation leaves you breathless.
Bro noods before ruffling your hair. You scowl because you're getting way too old for gestures of affection like that. "You know it lil' man, we got the whole nine yards." He stuffs his hand into his pocket and pulls out two small squares of paper. "Front row seats," he explains. "To the best show in town." You try your best to look as overjoyed as you know you should be feeling.
"Don't worry," Bro says. "I remember what turning five means," he says with a wink. "Your other present is at home, so let's just have fun for now. Okay kiddo?"
A smile splits your face before you can even attempt to be cool. You want to assure him he's the best brother ever but you can't find the right words. Instead you tug him towards the entrance. Your fingers twitch compulsively but Bro doesn't know sign language, won't understand. "Clowns," you manage at last, tripping over your own excitement.
It turns out that the circus consists of a lot of waiting, something that becomes infinitely more easy to stomach with the assistance of caramelized popcorn and candy apples. Sugary syrup coats your front teeth as you bite into an apple, and one wiggles with a telling looseness. The lights fizzle out one by one before blinking several times and shining a single spotlight onto the stage.
The face-painted Ringleader announces the arrival of his miracle band of misfits, invites the audience to join him in his ascension into the darkest of dark carnivals. The show is entirely run by similarly painted performers proudly dressed in purple, from the animal trainers to acrobats and everything in between. Ironically, it's the magic act that pushes your nerves to their limits, heart thundering desperately against your ribcage. Bro hands you chapstick when he notices the way you're gnawing on your bottom lip in anticipation, but you can't pull your eyes away even as you spread strawberry-banana Lip Smackers haphazardly across your mouth.
"I'm looking for a fearless little star monkey who'd like to volunteer to help us perform our next magical feat," the Ringleader says. He looks unsurprised as hundreds of hands shoot into the air. You stretch your arm as far up as you can manage, wiggling your fingertips. "The catch is that for this trick you must be willing to allow us to use an important item on your person." Several hands fall and your own wavers anxiously.
The Ringleader makes broad hand gestures as he explains. "This item can be something of monetary value, like a watch. Or it can be an item of emotional value, like a treasured photograph." Lil Cal's head bobs above your own as you wave him in the air. The Ringleader locks his eyes on yours and motions for you to stand. "Step right up little brother. Tell us your name."
Bro encourages you forward with a shooing hand motion and so you swallow up your nervousness and scuttle down the aisle onto the stage. The Ringleader hands you a microphone that's heavy and slick in your fingers. "Dave," you mutter in a quiet, cracked voice. Bro shoots you a thumbs up from the audience and relief washes over you. "Dave Strider," you repeat louder.
The Ringleader steps back in a sweeping motion that's almost frightening under the blinding glow of the fluorescent spotlight. "And who is this?" he asks, hunching over and gesturing to the wooden dummy dangling from your left hand. From this close you can see where his shiny dark skin streaks through the green paint, a greasy red swirl on either cheek almost like on your puppet.
"Lil Cal," you say proudly, holding up the puppet ineffectively for the audience to see. "Present from my Bro." you say, pointing. A spotlight hovers briefly over Bro and he gives a small wave.
The Ringleader smiles. "And would I be right if I guessed that today is also your birthday?" When he smiles his teeth appear too big and too pointy for the size of his mouth, but your brother's presence just a few meters away assures your safety.
Your eyes widen in amazement behind your sunglasses. "Yes," you say, quietly awed. "How did you know?"
The Ringleader delivers a small smile and a wink. You realize he has eyes the same color as your own. "A magician must never reveal his secrets," he says. "Ready for a birthday surprise?" he asks, reaching towards your most prized possession. "Don't worry," he says sweetly. "I promise I'll give it back."
Without further hesitation you hand Lil Cal over, eyes skittering to gauge Bro's reaction. The Ringleader holds Lil Cal high in the air and two cloaked figures appear from behind him, dragging forth a smaller, third person. For a brief moment you think that you're going to meet your first little person, but upon further inspection you realize that it's merely a boy not much older than yourself.
They press his palm flat against Lil Cal's head and begin chanting. The words are unrecognizable, the sound of their language foreign and sharp. As the chanting continues a gust of wind tears through the center of the stage, surging forward and propelling Lil Cal into the air where his wooden body hovers above the Ringleader's head. The boy begins screaming as the chanting rises in volume, and when you turn around to reach out for Bro you realize that everything behind you has disappeared.
Your heart begins to race as your eyes scan the darkness for recognizable shapes, frantically searching for the rows of comfortable seats you know should be there. The mood ring on your finger darkens as tears well in your eyes. The first figure flips back the hood of the third to reveal a boy with frightened violet eyes and lips shown shut with dark black thread. He stares directly at you before slowly lifting his arms and connecting his fingers. The boy signs at a speed so fast your eyes can barely track the movement, your brain struggling to keep up and comprehend while many of the signs are completely unfamiliar. Welcome to the Dark Carnival, he says. Prepare to be awakened.
You watch, horrified and mesmerized as the taller clown catches the end of the thread between his thumb and forefinger before giving it a firm tug. The thread begins sliding through the holes in his lips, dark indigo staining the fabric and splashing to the floor. When the last of it is removed the clown throws back his head and unhinges his jaw as a stream of white noise and whispering bursts forth.
Belatedly, Dave realizes the noise isn't a voice at all, but rather the low hum of hundreds of insects. They gather in hordes as the boy's body begins to decompose at an accelerated speed, bile rising in the back of your throat. When the boy begins screeching in pain you can't stop yourself from flinching and looking away. "Don't be such a fucking pussy," The Ringleader says, gripping your skull in his skeletal fingers and forcing you to watch.
A high pitched scream explodes in the air and the room goes dark, Lil Cal falling to the tiled stage with a soft thud.
The crowd applauds in a deafening uproar, standing in their seats to clap and shriek in amazement. You struggle to catch your breath, chest heaving with effort. "Dave!" a familiar voice shouts. Your eyes lock on Bro's face and you swallow the lump in your throat and lurch forward.
"Don't forget this," a deep voice says. Lil Cal is thrust into your arms while you breathe quick shallow breaths at the thought of his unhinging jaw. A chaotic noise bursts into your mind and erupts behind your temple. Let's go motherfucker, says the voice. You can see Lil Cal's shiny plastic eyes shift in your peripheral vision. Drop me and you will motherfucking regret it.
1999, Houston, Texas
You wake up in sweat soaked sheets gasping for air. Goosebumps pepper your arms and every hair stands on end as you struggle to steady your breathing. The dream fades as consciousness returns, details slipping away until all that's left is a blur of indigo and the feeling of cold, unreasonable fear. A bead of sweat trailing down the skin of your neck is enough to make you flinch instinctively, and the sudden flash of your own pale arm moving in the darkness nearly makes you scream. Get a hold of yourself Strider, lest you succumb to embarrassing levels of being a little bitch.
When you turn on the lamp beside your bed the light bulb flickers briefly before burning out, and after taking a deep breath you concede to face the constant unintentional irony that is your life. Humming pop music only just barely manages to quell your racing mind, drowning in unhelpful predictions about the horrors that lurk in the hallways of your oversized Texan home. You'll admit it to no one, but you make it to the bathroom on sheer visualization of Britney's Spears' new music video. You aren't exactly into blondes, and you aren't exactly into underage schoolgirls, but somehow that video presses all of the right buttons anyway.
By the time you make it to the closet your cock is at half mast, and you lose interest in shuffling through towels for light bulbs when a magazine slides off the top shelf and lands at your feet. The front features a nude black man sporting an erection the size of a yardstick while the title reads "Black Inches, #134." You flip through a few pages with a detached sort of interest before standing on tiptoe and blindly reaching around in search of another. Three more magazines fall to the floor, all of which cater exclusively to older men who like to fuck "tight, blond twinks."
The notion makes you uncomfortable but not enough to make you stop searching, and much to your triumph you are rewarded when the fifth and final magazine that falls onto your face features a woman. Unfortunately, she's sandwiched between two men who also appear to be very fond of one another, and when your eyes scan the title "Bisexual Threesomes," all the pieces fall perfectly into place. You forgo tradition in favor of desperation, flicking through the pages at the counter beside the sink.
You palm your dick through your boxers briefly before slipping your hand inside, biting your lip as you give it a firm squeeze. There are a few pictures with men blowing each other that you try to ignore, focusing instead on the dark haired woman they end up fucking. There's a little dialogue in the corner of the page that your brain almost compulsively reads, but you force the train of thought to derail before you end up creating an entire backstory for the three of them and featuring them in your next half finished screenplay.
"Shit," you mumble as your eyelashes flutter and the movement of your reflection shifting almost startles you.
It's distracting now that you've noticed it, the steady rhythmic motion of your hand jerking your dick. You shove self-absorption aside and back up to get a better view, swiping your thumb over the slit as your back hits the wall. The action forces a low groan from the back of your throat, and with your eyes half closed it's too easy to see someone else's hand palming your dick, a soft, feminine hand, like the one that belongs to Jade Harley. Your balls tighten at the thought, chest heaving in anticipation.
Jade is picture perfect, small and smart with big dorky glasses and an occasionally condescending smile. She whispers nerdy, dirty sciency things into your ear as she strokes your cock, licking your earlobe and scratching at your chest.
"The law of conservation," she gasps. "States that orgasms may be created, not destroyed-" she trails off when you slip under her shirt, pressing your fingers against her hardening nipples. She kisses you first and moans into your mouth when you slip your hand inside her panties.
Fuck, she's wet. You slide two fingers between the lips of her pussy and rub until she's gasping against your neck. Jade grips your shoulder as she rocks against your hand, dick still bobbing in her loose grip. She squeezes you in quick spasms when you plunge your fingers inside of her tight hole. She squeals when you crook them, bucking forward and grinding down as she gasps. She's surprisingly sensitive and inordinately quick to come, and as soon as the aftershocks cease she drops to her knees in front of you.
Your dick feels like stone and your balls are so tight you can't imagine that you'll last more than six minutes. When Jade wraps both hands around your cock and presses her tongue flat against the head you halve the time and divide the difference. Seventy-three seconds later and you've lost all ability to compute basic math.
Your eyes flash open as you near orgasm and for a brief moment you see Jade Harley in the mirror, kneeling at your feet with your dick in her mouth. She slobs your knob like a veritable pro until a coil unhinges in your belly and explodes from your dick in thick white spurts. You try warning Jade but all that escapes your throat is a strangled, desperate noise. She swallows you to the hilt as your dick twitches a second time, trapped in the hot, wet column of her throat.
After the third and final load Jade pulls away and wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear like a delicate goddamn flower, like she didn't just blow you in your bathroom and swallow. Slouching against the wall to catch your breath, you watch as mirror Jade turns away from mirror Dave to face you. Her mouth opens to reveal a lump of vaguely flesh colored mass. Her red eyes widen and she spits the lump onto the floor with a wicked grin. Recognition dawns on you in an embarrassingly high pitched scream.
"What the fuck, what the fuck, what the fuck!" your throat hurts but you can't will your mouth to shut.
The bathroom door flies open and Bro charges in with his tsuguri katana, eyes wide and frantic as he slips into his best defensive form. When he notices you his eyebrows shoot up to the top of his forehead. He glances down to the homoerotic pornography at his feet, before turning his attention back to the floor where you're pathetically crouched in the fetal position with your pants around your ankles.
Bro walks over to the counter where you've left "Bisexual Threesomes," and you try to uncurl and look a little more casual. Bro snorts as he thumbs through the pages in the magazine and you focus on regulating your heartbeat. He turns to you and points to a page featuring a young woman between two identical mocha skinned twins.
"I'd love to be the cream filling in that oreo," Bro says with a sly smirk. "If you know what I mean."
He stares pointedly at the spot between your legs for several seconds. Embarrassed, you tuck yourself back into your boxers and mutter an apology. Bro shakes his head. "Apology not necessary," he says. "Though I can't say I'd turn down an explanation for why you were screaming 'what the fuck' at three fifteen in the morning." Bro closes the magazine in his hands. "You know, when I had my sexuality crisis, I had it a whole lot quieter," he tells you.
You sigh and try to think of a reasonable way to explain what you just experienced. "Jade Harley bit off my dick," you say at last.
After the initial shock and panic ebbs away you manage to explain the entire incident to Bro, sparing him as many of the lurid details as possible. The last thing you want is your older brother being privy to your sexual fantasies. He's sitting on the countertop across from you, swaying his feet lightly and balancing his katana in the center of his palm. The third time it almost slips and slices open a major artery, Bro sits it down beside him and opens his mouth to speak.
"So let me get this straight. You had a bad dream?" he starts.
Your eye twitches. "Night terror," you correct.
Bro shrugs. "Same difference." You bite your tongue to keep yourself from flipping the fuck out. "So you had a bad dream, came in here to jerkoff, and then had a minor hallucination?"
Lips pressed into a thin line, you shake your head. "First of all, it was a night terror, and possibly precognitive." Bro rolls his eyes but it doesn't deter you. "Secondly, if I had been hallucinating-which I wasn't-I think it's safe to say that it would break at least a seven-point-nine on the hallucination scale." Bro waits for you to finish, unimpressed. "And thirdly, I didn't come in here to jerk off, I came in here looking for light bulbs and your stash of dirty magazines distracted me."
"Tomatoes, tomatas," Bro says disinterestedly.
You shoot him the most serious glare you can manage, being sure to maintain eye contact to assert your position as alpha. "This house is haunted," you say slowly for dramatic effect. "And we both know it."
Bro laughs, slides off the countertop, and tosses you the magazine over his shoulder as he heads for the door. "Don't stay up too late." he murmurs. You can't think of anything clever to say until Bro has rounded the corner and started down the hallway towards his bedroom. It doesn't matter, you're too angry to care about what the conversation lapse says about your intellect.
"We're moving out of this fucked up Scooby-Doo Halloween Special!" you scream as you towel up dried jizz off the bathroom floor.
You spend the rest of the night hunched over a Gameboy Color under three layers of blankets, catching wild pokemon beside the dim glow of the bedroom lamp and apprehensively glancing in the direction of the closet door. When you stumble into the kitchen four hours later Bro is already sitting at the counter, butterfly clips ironically pinning back his bright blond hair as he fiddles with his tamagotchi pet with one hand and shovels a poptart into his mouth with the other.
"You look well rested," Bro quips as you rummage through the freezer in search of french toast sticks.
You flash him your middle finger and roll your eyes. "Don't you have a lite brite calling your name or a bunch of anthropomorphic ponies to watch?"
Dirk's face remains impassive. "I'm not a just huge dick-sucking faggot factory twenty-four-seven," he informs you.
"Could have fooled me," you mutter, lining up four slices worth of frozen french toast sticks into your toaster. What? It isn't as if you splurged and spent extra on the deluxe model for no reason. It has four slots. You pull up a stool and Lil Cal almost frightens you into squeezing an entire bottle of maple syrup onto your breakfast.
"Does he really need to be at the kitchen table?" you complain.
Bro peers at you from over his bright red tamagotchi. Thirty-two is definitely too old to be playing with virtual pet animals but hey, you just spent four hours of your life participating in what might as well be a virtual dog fighting ring. Who are you to judge? "I'm not going to isolate Lil Cal from his family because you had a nightmare."
Bottling the rage that's boiling in your gut, you shake your head at his audacity and condescension. "You know, sometimes it feels like he's your brother, and I'm just a useless puppet," you say.
When you lean over your plate to take a bite of unevenly heated french toast substitute the newspaper beneath Lil Cal's wooden leg catches your eye. Suddenly your empty threat from this morning is fueled with determination and full of possibility. "I still want to move," you announce between bites of syrup and bread. "To California," you demand. "Los Angeles," you specify, eyes skittering across the article.
Bro shakes his head and sets down Lil Hal on the countertop so that you know he means business. "Absolutely not," he says evenly. You can't see his eyes behind his shades but his brows are narrowed and his jaw is tense.
You aren't budging. "You're not my real Dad," you tell him. Then, more steadily, you say, "I'll move without you."
Bro calls your bluff with a laugh and wave of his wrist. "Number for the U-haul is in the phonebook," he informs you. "Make sure you send me a postcard from LA."
As a last resort you heave your chest in the heaviest, noisiest sigh you can manage and roll your eyes. "We both know California is the homosexual capital of the entire world," you say. Bro's face remains apathetic. "And how long have you been single now? Two, three...four years?" Bro doesn't respond. "How is the gay scene in Houston anyway? Cloudy with a chance of gaybashing?"
At that Bro can't help but scoff, but you continue your unconvincing tirade like the salesman who advertises for the used furniture outlet The Dump. "The state itself is geographically the prostate of the United States of America," you try. Bro quirks a brow. "Every gym there is practically a big gay orgy waiting to happen, the streets are crawling with attractive, nubile young twinks-"
Bro stops you with a single hand gesture. "Dave, I've lived in Los Angeles. In the seventies. In the eighties. Before I found out I had a little brother on his way into foster care back in Houston, remember?"
Undefeated, you continue your methods of persuasion. "Bro, that was like…thirty years ago." Bro shrugs and you shake your head. "No, what I'm saying is, imagine how much gayer it's gotten." You raise your eyebrows suggestively and give him a few moments to consider what you've said.
"Who am I kidding?" Bro mutters to himself as as he heads for the kitchen sink. He turns to you and tips his shades in a mockery of seduction. "You had me at prostate."
Bro exits the kitchen with a flare and when you slip your plate into the sink a sudden movement catches your eye. You turn to find the countertop clear sans the newspaper, and you desperately try to convince yourself that Bro snagged Lil Cal on the way out.