Notes from Mama Lobster: Drugs. Oh my gog drugs. And everyone, meet Gamzee. Again.

Named for lyrics from "500 Channels" by Choking Victim


Slave and Sycophant

a.k.a. lobsterMatriarch takes artistic liberty with troll anatomy and drug use.

== Dave: call

The dude's a weirdo, but that doesn't stop him from having the best shit you've ever experienced in your life. No, you don't really want him in your apartment, but its not like Gamzee's dangerous or anything. Well, not anymore, anyway. Probably. Karkat was really insistent that he's ok now, not that you can really trust that asshole to be a great judge of character.

The nagging worry you have is still not enough to stop you from dialing his number. The itch keeps getting further under your skin and the headache you have forming is just too goddamn strong for you to care about murderous clown hijinks or whatever.

He's at your door in 4 minutes and 20 seconds, and you briefly wonder if he has anything else going on in his life. His smile curls to reveal some dangerous-looking fangs, and somehow you doubt that anyone else would be crazy enough to spend time with this douche.

His breath reeks as he greets you with a lazy drawl. "Fuck me if it isn't my motherfuckin' best customer right here. To what do I owe this motherfuckin' pleasure?"

The way he's leering at you through half-lidded eyes puts you even more on edge. Not the best of your ideas, Strider, bringing him here into the fucking sweet apartment you share with your fucking sweet wife who would absolutely fucking murder you if she knew about this. She's already crashing at John's place after dealing with your and bro's fight, if she fucking finds out about this…

Whatever. Get the goods and get him out before anyone can see.

"Don't flatter your creepy clown ass. You know damn well there's only one reason I'd allow the unironic antichrist to defile the awesome-as-fuck Casa de Strider."

Gamzee's unfazed. You wonder briefly if there's anything you could do to wipe that shit-eating grin off his face. No, really, it'd be starting to get under your skin if you weren't federally too cool for that.

"Always soundin' so bitter, man. Take some time an' smell the motherfuckin' roses. Or somethin' a little stronger, if that's more your style..." The way he's dangling that grubby little plastic bag in front of you like you're a goddamn dog with a treat… you'd kick his ass out if the itch weren't getting so bad.

You reach for it like the dumb little puppy you are. Maybe you haven't been potty trained well enough yet, because he yanks it away with alarming precision.

"Chill, you stressed out little motherfucker. Why the hurry? We got some motherfuckin' catching up to do. Not like you ever call just to hang out anymore, it's always 'coke this, pills that, get the motherfuck out of my face'. Shit's almost motherfuckin' hurtful." He's stepping up to you now, and you can see the repulsive scar tissue raised against his busted nose. Way too close, this fucker is all up in your business and he is just not going to help you stop the ringing in your ears, this stupid fucking clown smells so fucking nasty…

You've lunged at him before you're even aware of what you're doing, and somehow he's still faster. His face is just inches from yours and that shit-eating grin just will not quit. When he speaks you can almost feel the stench invading every pore of your skin.

"I'm just trying to tell you, brother, I got newer, better shit than before, an' I think it's time for you to expand your motherfuckin' thinkpan."

Gamzee's "shit" is already pretty fucking acceptable, bringing you to the ends of the universe and back. His claws wrap around your wrist, slithering together loosely, almost imperceptibly. Clearly you don't need- oh shit NASTY, is he on your neck? You try to jerk away, but the fucker is as deceptively strong as he is fast.

"You just don't motherfuckin' understand the miracles I'm tryin' to show you. Let me in." The bag of innocent white powder is replaced in a split second with something darker, still a mere few inches from your face. That is some awesome slight of hand he's got going on, you begrudgingly have to admit. You struggle, and finally break free of his grasp.

"Do not fucking touch me. And what even is that shit?"

He chuckles to himself, though his fucking eerie-ass stare is less than mirthful. He slices into the bag with a single talon, and in one fluid, hypnotic motion, he curls his long tongue around his fingers and takes the brown powder into his mouth.

"This right here is the face of the messiah, my motherfuckin' troubled brother." His wide-eyed stare isn't exactly comforting, and you find your cool somehow threatened once again. "You kids call it what you like, dope, junk, it's all the motherfuckin' same to me. I know that it's the only truth in this motherfuckin' messed up universe that you little pink assholes made for us."

All too late you realize what he's about to do, and that you have no idea why you didn't stain-proof the carpet while you had the chance. His fangs sink deeply into the crook of his arm, the thick purple liquid hissing and boiling in contact with the poison in his mouth. He lingers, throat pulsing as his tongue pushes the heroin deep into his veins. The sizzling chemical reaction it has with Gamzee's rich blood sounds almost as awful as it looks, and burns even as he draws his mouth away from the broken skin.

Psychotic little fuck just keeps smiling like nothing happened, gently licking at the excess purple staining his lips.

"Whoa whoa whoa what the FUCK are you doing you FUCKING freak?!"

Yeah, your cool is pretty much gone. You hope the gods of irony find it forgivable after that creepy fucking mess you just saw.

Gamzee's smile is ever serene, half-lidded eyes losing focus. "What you should be doin' too. Say whatever you want, motherfucker, but you called me here for a reason. You and I ain't so different, really. You just need to let yourself go, feel the universe like I do. Share in the motherfuckin' miracle before the mundane starts rottin' your thinkpan. It's already started. I can see it in the way your motherfuckin' hands shake."

He knows. He can hear the buzzing that's flooding your ears and feel the itch crawling below your skin and muscle. He knows what you see when you dream, when a loud noise startles you in public or a clock ticks by your bedside. He's always been able to cure it before.

But this… this shit is fucking freaky. There's no going back from what you just saw.

He's too close again. Didn't anyone ever teach this psycho about personal space? No, apparently they fucking did not, says the hot breath pressing into your cheek. He presses the familiar white bag into your chest, leaving the sticky, warm blood smeared across your shirt.

"Your usual, man. An' this right here," he shoves another brown bag into your hand, "this is a fuckin' gift. This is what's gonna save you."

For a brief moment, you think you can see his mask of serenity crack. Gamzee's leer is far from innocent, his fanged smile growing wider and more deranged as eyes tinged with red meet your own. His hand draws slowly, patiently nearer to your face, threatening, ready to strike…

"HONK." he presses a forefinger to your nose and smiles. As quickly as he came, he's gone, and all you can do is stare, stupefied, at the revolting purple stain spreading on your carpet.

Dude, seriously. Fuck clowns.