A/N: I could only think of this. Major writer's block.
On Fridays, people in the normal world always said TGIF: Thank God It's Friday. His friends, perhaps the farthest things away from any hope of normalcy, always said TGITTD:
Thank God It's Torture Two-Bit Day.
He was sure of it, feeling like a Green Beret sneaking into the heart of Saigon stalking around the corn chip and Mr. Clean aisles. Trust no one on Fridays, he thought to himself, and perhaps you will make it out alive—or just get through your day without carpet burn marks across your face and stomach. Nope. He couldn't explain that one to himself no matter how hard he tried.
Torture Two-Bit Day always fell on a Friday. Coincidentally, Fridays were the days he'd get the most stoned—so he could not feel the torture.
Two-Bit glanced left, then glanced right, and made a break from the store to the car—
"What'd you get, Two-Bit?" Soda beamed.
Shit.
"A few things,"said Two-Bit, ripping the trunk open, "here and there. Come on, let's go 'fore they wise up."
"But Dally's still in there."
Two-Bit pshawed as he stuffed several items in the trunk. "When good ol' Two-Bit was takin' a leak in the Johnsons' backyard the night they TPed it, did Dally ever say, hey, let's not, good ol' Two-Bit's still in there? No! When good ol' Two-Bit busted out the school windows, did Dally ever say to the fuzz, good ol' Two-Bit couldn't have done it, 'cause he's still in there, learnin' important stuff—like math and how to snag three blondes with one line? No!"
"Yes, he did," Soda said. "He actually got slammed for that—"
"No, no, no, no, no, no!" Two-Bit declared like a spoiled child, stomping the ground.
Soda lifted his eyebrows, wondering why Two-Bit had taken a fancy to referring to himself in the third person. He shrugged, most wisely diagnosing the patient as half-crocked. "Hold it," he said sternly, studying his innocently smiling buddy. To put it simply, Two-Bit was twinkling...he had hidden tinsel underneath his jacket.
"It's just a few things," Two-Bit said, stuffing the yard of tinsel into the trunk. "Big whoop."
Soda seized Two-Bit by the collar of his jacket, ripping it off. A pile of novelty items, candy bars, cigarettes, peanut butter, anniversary cards—Two-Bit had a tendency to steal strange things when he was stoned—and five beer cans fell out.
"It woulda been six, but good ol' Two-Bit got thirsty," Two-Bit said, grinning like an idiot.
"You swiped the whole fucking store, man!" Soda shrilled. "Put this stuff back!"
"Hey, Soda, lookit this," Two-Bit said, ignoring him. Turning around, he put on a pair of slinky-eyeglasses. "Lookit. Lookit me. I'm Donny and Marie before they put their eight tons of makeup on. Look—lookit. I got bags in my eyes." He pivoted back and forth on his feet, clattering the slinky-eyes together and grinning as he scanned the horizon. "Oh dear, oh damn, where is the fuckin' mascara wand when you need it the most?"
Soda groaned. "Why do you always get to be Donny and Marie?"
"'Cause they're really both men and you know it," Two-Bit said, sticking out his tongue.
And thus, the indignant Sodapop pulled back one of the slinky-eyes and snapped Two-Bit in the face with it.
"I'm not listening!" Two-Bit had shrilled for entire length of the forty-minute ride downtown, covering his ears and shutting his eyes.
Dally grinned evilly. "So Mickey Mouse is walkin' down the street, singin', dancin', mindin' his own business and what-not, when, all of a sudden—boom! Speed Racer comes in doing 85 down the old dirt road."
Two-Bit's nostrils flared as he stuck his fingers in his ears and began to resolutely belt out "I Can't Get No Satisfaction".
"Speed Racer is rocked and crocked. But Mickey's still waiting for the light to go green." Dally glanced at Soda, who winked at him from the rearview mirror. Two-Bit pouted out the window, still shrilling as perfectly as a tone-deaf Mick Jagger. "Then, all of a sudden, the light goes green! And Mickey keeps on walking until—until Speed Racer glances up to readjust the rearview mirror and—and, me oh my! Mickey notices one of his shoe's left untied."
"—I can't get no girly action, I can't get no—"
"There's snow and sleet and shit on the ground as Speed Racer stomps down on the brakes, but—he forgot—he forgot to put brake fluid in the car this morning!" Dally almost pissed himself looking at the expression on Two-Bit's face. "The horror! The horror! Oh, the fucking horror!"
"Sat-is-fac-tion, a-hey-hey-hey! That's what I say!"
"And then some hillbilly comes and fries Mickey Mouse up for breakfast the next morning," Dallas said. "The end."
Two-Bit, having coincidentally finished the song, stared at him.
"Well, you wanted to know what happened on Mickey Mouse, so I told you," Dally said innocently. "What—don't you believe me?"
"Aw, hell, Dally," Two-Bit said. "You just told me that story 'cause you wanted to forget that it's been seven blocks and you still hafta take a leak."
"That's bullshi—"
They hit a pothole, bounced up, and he winced. He ignored Two-Bit's evil smile. Eventually, he stopped at a railroad crossing looking out at the city. He glanced left; he glanced right. He was about to gun it when—
A fifteen-minute long coal shipment came in from Toronto.
Dally cursed the cruel and sadistic universe in an unbroken string of oaths.
"Meanwhile, it's the ninth hole, where Dallas Winston is preparing to take his first tinkle. Observe how his eyes shift uneasily in search of a good place to piss," Two-Bit announced in a whisper. He turned towards Soda. "I have a feeling this'll be a close one. Will he make it to the semifinals this time? Will he go on to land the hole-in-one? Or will this be like his last season—under par?" He smiled. "Let's watch."
Dally groaned, slamming his hand on the horn in vain.
"Fine," Two-Bit said, fumbling around behind his seat. He pulled out a thermos. "Just do it in the cup. We won't watch you," he said, adding: "Much."
"Yeah—smile pretty for your Christmas card," Soda whispered.
"What was that, Bubbles?" Dallas growled as he shifted in his seat again.
Soda blinked at the ceiling. He loved watching potty dances, especially when someone like Dally was just ready to crack. "Nuthin'."
"What the shit is this, Two-Bit? A thermos? Fuck that shit. I ain't pissing in your spit," Dally said, throwing the thermos into the back seat and defiantly wrapping his knuckles around the steering wheel.
Two-Bit seemed offended at this, crossing his arms. "You sayin' my spit's worse than your piss?"
"No," said Dally, grinning slowly. He knew he shouldn't—but he also knew you only lived once. "I'm sayin' my piss tastes better in Kathy's mouth."
Soda's incredulous face grew red and pinched. Dally tried not to crack, rubbing good-naturedly at his mouth. Two-Bit sat dumbstruck, looking like he'd been shot.
Soda snorted. He and Dally began laughing, softly.
"Shud-the-hell-dup!" Two-Bit roared after the shock subsided.
Soda leaned in from the back to clap palms with Dally.
"Par one for Winston," he said.
"You had your turn. I want the phone now," Two-Bit whined, taking the receiver from Dally. He wasn't sure if it was him, or if his eyes looked redder. He had just finished calling Johnny, and was now leaning against the side of the car, glaring at the growing filter he never bothered to flick away.
"What?" he snapped. "So you can screw up the call again?"
"No—I'm gonna call Darry and ask him if he's noticed Soda ain't home yet. Then I'm gonna call Soda and ask 'im if he's noticed Darry's fridge is still running."
"Yeah," said Dally, seizing Two-Bit's quarter and rolling it down the road, "not if you can't catch it first."
"My quarter!" he shrilled very melodramatically, clapping his palms over the sides of his gaping face—he had a tendency to dramatize strange things when he was stoned—and bolted off.
They watched him with amusement.
Two-Bit started in a mad dash for the quarter, which kept on rolling and rolling down the slick gray road. He chased after it for a good half the block, tripped over an empty beer can that slipped out of his pocket, stumbled over himself, cursing the ever-rolling quarter, bumped into an old woman, cursed again, got hit in the shin with the walker of aforementioned old woman, performed the famous hitty-shinny dance, which found his buddies doubled over in convulsions, until the coin turned a slight left and dropped into the gutter. Two-Bit let out a yelp and dove for it like a strongside linebacker. He landed face-first among the pick-up in the gutter. He stuck his hand into the hole, fishing around for a minute. Wide-eyed, he pulled it out. His face glowed with victory as he held it up to the sunlight, realizing—
It was actually a nickel.
Two-Bit cursed the cruel and sadistic universe in an unbroken string of oaths.
"TGITTD, ya motherfucker!" Soda squealed in the distance, waving his quarter in the air.
And Two-Bit smacked his head against the pavement.
Later, Two-Bit came out of the phone booth knowing why it was really fucking called Torture Two-Bit Day.
"Whoa—what's the matter?" Soda said. "What'd Kathy say?"
"Well, she said, uh, she said a few things." Two-Bit looked up, smiling. "That I'm a good-for-nothing piece of shit." Turning around, he lowered his eyes and inhaled. "That I'm no better than my old man." His smile widened; he laughed at the ground. "That I should just drop dead."
Soda's eyes widened. "Two-Bit—"
Two-Bit waved him away, fumbling absently around in his back pocket for a cigarette. "Nah, man, it's fine. It's fine. I don't care. It don't matter anyway." His lowered eyes brightened as his smile grew even wider in the orange light of the match. "If I go to war and get blown up, it ain't no different, right? If I stay here, I'll drop dead in about a couple a years. Nah. It don't matter, man...it don't matter."
"S-stop talking like that, Two-Bit," Sodapop said, his voice getting high. He slid off the hood with a stricken expression on his face, taking Two-Bit by the shoulder. "Shut up, man, just shut up about that, okay?"
"It's true," Two-Bit said, shrugging. "Dad left us high and fuckin' dry. I guess I ain't no better—"
"Shut up!" Soda shrilled.
"Look—we all gotta go sometime. In Kathy's case, it's sooner instead of later."
"Fuck her, man," Dally said suddenly, shooting up from his place against the hood. He pointed a confident finger at the ground. "You know what? Fuck alla' this, man. They don't need us. We don't need them. So fuck her. Fuck Darry. Shut up, Soda. Fuck Steve; fuck Pony; fuck J—" Dally's voice cracked. His face twisted slightly before he regained his composure. "J-just fuck them all—damn it—damn it all—"
He cupped his face in his palm.
