Look up over there! Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No, it's an update!
A frantic knocking from the front door jarred DJ out of his thoughts. He raised his head out of his hands, momentarily wondering what was going wrong now.
"DJ? DJ, it's Flippy."
Figures.
"Open up, man. Can we talk?"
Of course we can talk. We've evolved so for that we can form words instead of mere grunting. That seems like talking, doesn't it?
"Please, DJ. Open up."
Alright, but only because you said 'please.' DJ pushed himself off the couch, stretched once, and made his way to the front door.
24th April, 1997.
"Hey, Dezzie." Zeke smiled warmly as Desmond, now aged seven, walked out of the school gates into his waiting arms. "Bad day, huh?" He grinned, Desmond hugging him tighter than usual. "Alright, c'mon now. We've got to get home."
Seeming the look of anguish on his friend's face, Zeke sighed. "I'm sorry, bro. But we've got to get home."
Desmond's expression pleaded for another option, as the two crossed the road and began walking down the street. Dad was always ill-tempered, and since he started drinking the odds of a beating had increased double. Desmond was afraid of his father, truly afraid. Zeke knew this, and shook his head sadly.
"I know, Des. I know. But we don't have anywhere else to go…" Zeke trailed off, his eyes blanking out as an idea reached his head. "On second thoughts… Maybe we do have somewhere else to go, even just for tonight."
Desmond stared at his companion quizzically.
"Wanna go camping, Desmond?"
DJ opened the door.
"I'm sorry, man! I didn't know, honestly. I mean, you barely talk about yourself, so how could I know? It's not like-"
"It's alright, Flippy." DJ interrupted, holding up a hand to silence the army vet. "It's not your fault. I was stupid enough to think something different would happen this year. A poor decision on my part, and it won't happen again."
"Look, DJ-"
"I'd like to be alone now, Flippy." DJ nodded, and began closing the door.
"Now, hang on, DJ." Flippy said, but DJ quickly slammed the door.
Onto Flippy's foot, instantly breaking it.
"FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU-"
The stars twinkled in the sky, the glaringly white of the moon standing out against the deep black sky above. The burning embers of the campfire crackled, and one of the marshmallows above the fire burst into flames, then melted right off the stick.
"Damnit, that's the fifth one!" Zeke exclaimed, retracting his marshmallow-stick and snuffing the small fire on the end of it out with one paw. Not to be deterred, he grabbed another marshmallow from the packet and stabbed it with his stick. "Sixth time's the charm!"
Desmond didn't feel the need to comment that this was actually the eight time, or ninth of you count his previous stick bursting into flames, so he remained silent as he watched his marshmallow slowly burn.
By some stroke of luck, Zeke had managed to convince Dad that Desmond was staying over at a friend's place, despite the glaring obvious fact that Desmond had no friends. From then on in, it was just a matter of grabbing some basic camping gear (marshmallows, tent, marshmallows, etc.), and now the two were sitting beneath the night sky, roasting/burning marshmallows.
"Ah,damnit! Not again!" Zeke cried, as his marshmallow once again burst into flames. He threw his stick into the fire in anger, and began pouting. "Stupid marshmallow. They're not even that good, they taste like pillows."
Desmond considered this, regarding Zeke with a curious glance. He then glanced at his marshmallow, roasted to perfection, and took a small bite.
They don't taste like pillows at all… Pillows have a distinct, feathery taste.
Desmond looked back at his older 'brother', and offered the marshmallow to him.
"You sure, bro?"
Desmond nodded his head.
"You're a good kid." Zeke smiled as he peeled the marshmallow off the stick and popped it in his mouth.
Desmond smiled slightly, then leant back in the grass. Far, far above him, the stars winked brightly, almost assuring Desmond that things would turn out okay.
Almost.
"I must say, Flippy, you've got a unique way of invading one's privacy."
Flippy simply moaned in pain as DJ not-so carefully propped Flippy's crushed foot onto of the coffee table. Flippy laid back on the couch, face masked in a mask of agony as DJ unceremoniously inspected his foot.
"Oh, sush. It's not that bad."
"Not that bad? Do you have any idea how heavy your door is?"
"Of course I do. It's made out of lightweight steel. It keeps the intruders away." DJ offhandedly replied, brushing some of the blood away from Flippy's foot to get a better look. "This may hurt a bit."
Before Flippy could ask what, a sharp, searing bolt of pain shot through his foot. He bit his tongue to keep from screaming, but his moans were still quite loud. DJ seemed to be oblivious to Flippy's groans of agony as he felt over Flippy's foot carefully, with the calm patience of an experienced doctor.
"Yeah, I lied. It kinda hurts a lot."
"Do you even know what you're doing?" Flippy screeched through gritted teeth as DJ felt a particularly nasty bruise.
"Of course I do, Flippy. I studied medicine in college, among other things. I'm checking to see if it's completely shattered or just a fracture."
Flippy's hands clenched the upholstery of the couch as DJ prodded another painful spot.
"Go easy on the couch, Flippy. I plan on using that thing for the next few years."
"I'll go easy on the couch if you go easy on my foot!"
"Relax, I'm done." DJ finished, easily putting Flippy's foot back on the coffee table. "Wow, you didn't pass out. You want a lollipop?"
"Fuck you!" Flippy screamed.
"Maybe later." DJ responded, totally deadpan.
Flippy blinked.
"You've got a hairline fracture." DJ declared professionally. "Nothing too serious. Under normal circumstances, it's probably take a month or so to heal completely. Round here, should be about three days. Less if you, you know, die."
"It still hurts…"
"Yeah, it'll do that. Wait here, I'll get some bandages."
Somewhere around midnight that night, Desmond awoke with a start.
It was dark. Very, dark. The moon had disappeared, as had the stars, and totally darkness was everywhere. Desmond couldn't see a damned thing.
Unnerved, Desmond groped around for his flashlight. It was a good flashlight, a bright one, one with stickers on it. But he couldn't find it. The darkness made him blind. The torch seemed to be gone.
Desmond whimpered.
It's not that he was afraid of the dark, per se, but more of what the dark hid. You couldn't see if there was anything hiding in the dark. Darkness consumed dreams and left nothing but nightmares in its wake.
And you can't read in the dark. That was a slight obstacle too.
Desmond whimpered again, slightly louder.
"That you, Des?" Zeke whispered.
Desmond nodded.
"You know I can't see you right now in the dark."
"I'm scared." Desmond whispered, his voice quiet and timid.
"Ah, come here you."
Desmond felt the familiar comfort of Zeke wrapping a warm arm around his shoulders, his fear fading just a bit.
"Is it the dark?"
Desmond nodded again. "Yeah." He squeaked.
"Trust me, Des. There is nothing in the dark that will hurt you as long as I'm around."
Zeke had such a wonderful way with words. "Promise, Zeke?" Desmond whispered.
"I promise you, bro. I will never let anything bad happen to you again. I promise."
Desmond smiled, and closed his eyes. Snuggled up against his only friend, the only person he probably ever cared about, that feeling of fear gone, he purred once, and slowly returned to sleep.
Neither of them knew that Zeke's promise would be broken in only a matter of months.
Flippy had somewhat calmed down as DJ wrapped the medical bandages around his broken foot. Sure, it still hurt, but the pain had lessened to a dull throb. As long as he kept weight off it, he'd be fine in a few days. Earlier if he died and reincarnated later on.
"You know what this reminds me of?" Flippy mused as DJ continued to wrap the bandages around his foot. "The first time we met. Remember that, DJ?"
"You stabbed me in the eye and stole my notebook." DJ bluntly replied. "I'm not going to forget the day I died."
Flippy shook his head, chuckling dryly.
"I got some crutches in the back." DJ said, finishing dressing the wound and getting to his feet. "Wait here, I'll be right back."
Flippy nodded as DJ exited the room, his footsteps fading away. Now alone in DJ's living room, Flippy glanced around the room. An expensive-looking big-screen TV… Bookshelf full of books – no surprise there - … And a large fireplace, just to Flippy's right. Upon the mantelpiece, where there would normally be family photos, there was no such kind. Indeed, the only thing on the mantelpiece was what looked like an old, ratted copy of Stephen King's The Shining. Flippy absent-mindedly grabbed the book and flicked through the pages.
A small piece of paper fell out.
Flippy looked at the photo quizzically, and put the book back on the mantelpiece. Picking it up and giving it a quick once over, he read the words written messily on the paper.
Desmond.
You are a good person. Don't let anyone ever tell you otherwise.
I will always love you. Always.
- Zeke.
Musing, Flippy re-read the words on this paper twice, then flicked the paper over to see what was on the other side.
It was an old photo, taken back in happier times. Two cats, one clearly bigger and older than the other, at what looked like a standard park. The bigger cat was a jet-black jaguar, wearing simple hunting shorts and a hunting belt, one arm wrapped lovingly around the smaller cat. The smaller cat was more grayish in color, and instead of hunting garb was wearing some normal-looking jean-shorts.
Flippy recognized the smaller cat as DJ.
A 'THUMP' signaled DJ's return. Hurriedly, Flippy shoved the photo in his jacket pocket, just as DJ walked back in with a pair of crutches in his grip.
"They're a bit old, but they'll be fine." DJ assured Flippy, handing him the crutches.
"Yeah, thanks." Flippy said, grabbing the crutches and pushing himself up. "Thanks for, uh, fixing my foot."
"I couldn't have you limping around on my lawn now, could I?"
"No, I suppose you couldn't." Flippy nodded as he hopped to the front door.
"Oh, and Flippy?" DJ called out. Flippy froze, and slowly turned around.
"Yeah, DJ?"
"Could you, um, not tell anyone else that it was my birthday? I, er, don't particularly feel like having a party anymore."
"Oh, sure." Flippy nodded. "My lips are sealed." And he limped out the door into the afternoon sun.
DJ watched him go with sad eyes.
"That was a good time, wasn't it?" Zeke offhandedly asked as he and Desmond walked home, Zeke carrying the camping supplies all jammed in the one backpack, not bothered in the slightest. "It was nice to get away from Dad, wasn't it?"
Des simply nodded, smiling outwardly at the memories of last night's camping trip, but inwardly dreading going back home. Hopefully, Dad would be passed out on the couch, too drunk and hung-over to even notice either of them. Realistically, he'd probably be drunk and hung-over, but not passed out. Just waiting. Waiting from him to come home.
It was just past 5am, the sun just beginning to rise, when Zeke & Desmond turned a corner and immediately got a gun shoved in their face.
"Gimmie all your money, and no-one gets hurt!" The mugger, a blue ferret who looked like a drug dealer, brandished the weapon in front of Zeke's face, eyes narrowed.
Zeke duly noted the gun that was being unceremoniously shoved in his face was a silver Desert Eagle. He slowly, almost mockingly, raised his hands in the air in a surrender motion. "Alrighty, boss. Money's in my backpack. You wanna get it, or will I?" Zeke asked, grinning.
"You get it." The mugger ordered, then aimed the gun in the direction of Desmond, who up until that moment had been stunned, too surprised to move. Now with a gun thrust in his face, Desmond took an unconscious step back, but the mugger quickly grabbed his arm in a cast-iron grip. "You make one wrong move, and I'll blow his brains out." He threatened, tightening his grip on Desmond's arm.
"Alright, alright, no-body has to get hurt." Zeke said, the grin wiped off his face at the sight of his younger brother being held at gunpoint. "You're the boss." He added, as he slowly slipped the backpack off and laid it on the ground. Keeping eye contact with the mugger, Zeke slowly knelt down, his fingers brushing against one of the zippers.
"Hurry it up!" The mugger exclaimed, the prospect of this heist working causing him to lose concentration for just one moment.
One moment was all it took.
Zeke took advantage of the mugger's distraction, and quickly dashed forward, leveling the mugger with a fist to the face with one hand, pushing the gun out of his grasp with the other. The mugger, now nursing a cut lip, retaliated with a stunning backhand that would no doubt sting in the morning, followed up with a sharp jab to Zeke's kidneys, and a sick knee to the gut. Zeke stumbled backwards, against the wall of a brick building, and the mugger quickly wrapped his dirty, clawed hands around Zeke's throat, even lifting his off the ground as he choked him.
"You smartass son of a bitch!" The mugger shouted, as Zeke tried in vain to break the hold on his throat. Zeke's lungs were burning for air now, and all he could do was struggle vainly as his vision began to get all blurry. With his blurry gaze, he saw movement behind the mugger, and raised his eyebrows.
"What? What are you looking at?" The mugged questioned, then turned his head-
BANG!
-Just in time for the back of his skull to explode, showering Zeke with bits of blood and brain matter. The mugger collapsed, now with only half a head, and Zeke slid down to the ground, gasping in the air as Desmond stood above him, the Desert Eagle in his hands still smoking.
While Zeke and the mugger were struggling, the gun had landed on the ground next to Desmond. He had quickly snatched up the gun, quickly deciding whether to use it or not. It was simple, wasn't it? Point at the target, pull the trigger, target goes down, right?
Evidently not. When Desmond pulled the trigger the recoil was almost enough to throw him off his feet, the sound of the bullet being fired louder than what it was in the movies, and Desmond was aiming at the mugger's back when he fired.
Instead the round smashed into the mugger's head, and on the contrary to what most movies showed, it didn't make a perfectly neat hole. No. It blew half the mugger's head to pieces. Oh, and fun fact: Not all headshots are instantly fatal, as also said in movies. The mugger was still alive, his body jerking, lying facedown on the ground as red blood and grey brain matter oozed out of his skull.
Desmond stood stunned, eyes wide as the full fact of what he'd just done slowly sunk in. The Desert Eagle was still in his grasp, pointing at the spot where the mugger was alive only moments ago. Zeke, half-covered in blood, looked from the mugger's shuddering body, then to his brother, then shockingly grinned.
"Nice shot, bro." He said, shakily getting to his feet. "Now let's move it, before someone calls the cops." He grabbed the camping bag with one hand, and grabbed Desmond with the other. The contact broke Desmond's paralysis, and he allowed himself to be led away from the scene as he and Zeke broke into a run.
Desmond glanced behind him, back at the body. The mugger finally stopped shuddering, let out a death rattle, and lay still, now definitely dead.
Desmond's first kill. At the age of 8. He started early, didn't he?
And YES, it DID take me that long to upload. Damn Microsoft Word being a bitch. Poor DJ, this is the one story he's itching to write and nothing's co-operating.
Reviews appreciated, flames used to cook lunch, and constructive criticism will be taken under advisement.
~ DJ.