All right, I admit I am not 100% pleased with the way this chapter came out, but I'm going to go ahead and post it for now. I may come back later and make some edits - if I do, I will mention something in the author's notes. Anyway, thank you, hope you enjoy! :3
There was a reason (well, many reasons, to be honest, but in particular one major reason) that, on the whole, Chell and both Wheatleys preferred that his more easy-going half run the errands that required interacting with people and that reason was because he had hardly any filter. For example, the same Tuna Helper encounter that Wheatley had described earlier to Chell would have gone much differently had it been with him instead. If he had been in a good enough mood (i.e. itch satisfied recently), he might have simply picked the box off the shelf without much complaint and moved on. But if he had been in a bad mood, he likely would have told the woman that he wasn't anybody's bloody maid, knocked the box off the top shelf, and stalked off without another word. There had also been few other past incidents in which he had made a couple of the cashiers uncomfortable with some of his off-color remarks when they had only been trying to make friendly conversation. Chell had then taught him how to use the self-checkout machines, but that had only led to him becoming frustrated when it refused to weigh things properly and kept telling him to remove an item from the bagging area, which resulted in him removing the item along with the entire bagging area instead. He had been banned from that particular store at that point and, subsequently, banned by Chell from going out on his own. It was true that he had gotten better at controlling the worst of his impulses and temper, but it was still preferred that either Vanilla Wheatley or Chell run the errands to prevent any further awkward instances.
And now, after two months without any relief from the itch, it was just about out of control and, as a result, so was his temper. His other half was doing a much better job of hiding it, but he... well, he was struggling, truth be told. He was trying his best to keep himself in check, both for Chell and for the baby (hell, it wasn't their fault that he was like this, although some pitch black part of him tried to tell him that it was), but he knew he was steadily losing that battle. He felt cornered, trapped, downright feverish, and if he didn't get out soon he was afraid he was going to burst - hopefully literally burst, because he was 100% certain that would feel a lot better compared to the way that damn persistent itch was clawing at him, setting him on fire from the inside out.
It certainly did not help now being faced with some strident stranger who had upset his outing with his family. Sure, he had been lying dormant, enjoying the day from afar in some kind of disconnected but spiritual way, but here, now, with a threat being posed against his family? He was more than teetering on the edge - now he had been flat-out shoved over and all semblance of propriety was gone.
As soon as he took charge, he quickly took stock of the situation - Chell, distressed, looking torn between concern for him, concern for the baby, and animosity directed at the woman; the baby, his baby, crying, refusing to be consoled by his mother; the carefully crafted tuna sandwich, splattered on the blanket, ruined; and finally, the harpy bitch who had caused all of this pandemonium. He sized her up and rather thought she should be grateful that he wasn't plugged into the mainframe right then - otherwise he would have tossed her straight into a deadly pit lined with acid, thermal discouragement beams, and mashy spike plates without a second thought.
Furious, he regarded the woman with a look full of such baleful spite, she actually retreated a few steps in shock, clutching onto her shoulder bag as if it could provide some kind of protection from him. Wheatley caught a glance of Chell shaking her head at him but there was no way he was going to let this go. Not a chance.
"Why are you and your husband so fixated on her tits, huh?" he spat, holding his stance firmly. "They're there, yeah, so what? Big deal. Well, they are actually quite a- quite a big deal, if you get my meaning, heh." He paused to chuckle at his own joke while the woman's face contorted in some rather interesting ways. This pleased him. "Is it because you haven't got any? Huh? Maybe a little jealous? I could imagine that's hard for you - the both of you, you and your husband - but it's not really our problem, so-"
"You're really a pervert, you know that?" she gasped, sounding aghast.
"Excuse me - I'm a pervert?" he sneered, "You and your whole family have such a hard time keeping your eyes off my girlfriend's tits that you felt the need to come over and announce it to us. I think that makes you the pervert."
This sent the woman into a fluster, "I- No, what she is doing is- It's indecent exposure and it's disgusting!"
Wheatley scoffed, "Honestly I think the only thing around here that fits into the category of 'indecent exposure' is your face."
"Oh, yes, that's very mature of you."
Wheatley shrugged in response and slipped his hands into his pockets.
"Just cover up. I don't want to look over and see her with her boobs out again."
"So don't look over here then. Problem solved. See, wasn't that easy? I've always considered myself a problem solver and I'm so glad I could help you figure out a solution to this dire issue."
"Don't tell me what to do! I can look wherever I like! This is a free space, and in case you missed it, also a public space. No one wants to look over and see someone else exposing themself."
"Well, I don't see any signs around here saying breast-feeding isn't allowed. There are signs about not leaving behind your dog's shit, not feeding the ducks, let's see, no skateboarding, no soliciting, but hm, nothing about breast-feeding. Isn't that interesting?"
"There doesn't have to be a sign up for it to be illegal, genius."
"Illegal, right... Your fake tan should be illegal."
"You think you are so funny. Really setting a great example for your kid there."
"Same could be said about you, you sunburnt twat."
The woman huffed and readjusted her bag on her shoulder, "I'm done talking to you. If I look over and see her doing it again, I will call the police. 'Kay?"
"So, the baby is supposed to just starve? Huh? Is that your prerogative? Starve babies so you don't have to look away and mind your own bloody business?"
"You ever hear of a bottle, you moron? It's what normal people use to feed babies while out and about."
Wheatley's eyes darkened and his voice lowered, becoming laced with dark venom, every bit as acidic as the pits of acid that could be found haphazardly strewn throughout the facility, "Moron, huh? You think I'm a moron? Well, nice to meet you, Pot. Actually, no, it hasn't been nice meeting you," he growled, hands coming out of his pockets while he circled around her with lazy, almost laid-back strides, even as his core burned from within him, making him feel full of boiling hot radioactive material.
The woman gave him a confused look and turned to keep him within her sight. He could see that she was at least a little wary - afraid - of him. He liked that and could not hold back a slight smirk, despite his roiling fury over the sight of her. As he came around the other side of her, he was able to see that Chell had assembled the wrap and was holding their squirming, fussing infant against her. She was standing there trying to calm him down, but nothing was working. He was still hungry, plain and simple, and the only thing that was going to calm him down was to finish his interrupted meal.
The sound of Charlie's crying was setting his teeth on edge, but it wasn't because of the shrill sound of it, no, it was due to the cause of it.
He turned his attention back to the woman and offered her his most blistering scowl, "And normal, huh? That's your idea of normal, is it? I suppose you think staring at other people's tits and bossing other people around is normal too, huh? Well, there's only enough room around here for one boss, and guess who that is?" The pitch of his voice dropped again, thick malice bleeding out of him in the same way molten rocks ooze down the blackened slopes of a volcano, "It's me."
The woman opened her mouth but Wheatley cut her off harshly.
"No, why should my son have to eat with a blanket over his head or in the toilet just because you and your husband can't be bothered to turn your lecherous little eyeballs in another direction? Is that not the pinnacle of laziness and stupidity right there? Now who's the moron?"
"Again, this is a public space, we should be able to enjoy this area without having to see- that."
Wheatley glared at her for a moment longer before forcing himself to relax, at least on the outside. "You know what? I think I see what you mean."
The woman, surprised by yet another abrupt change in his demeanor, could do little else other than stare at him like he was a lunatic. Truth be told, he sure felt like one right then.
"I think we can come to some kind of compromise here. I'll just run it by your husband, shall I?" he said, flashing a smile at the woman (which must have appeared every bit as insincere as he meant it to, because the woman seemed even more nonplussed), and then turned briefly back to Chell - "I'll be back in a moment, luv. You wait here and take care of Charlie, I'll get this sorted out," - before marching over in the direction of the picnic table that hosted the problematic family. Before he turned away, he saw Chell stooping to down to pick up the fallen sandwich and dropping it back into the cooler, although her eyes were still on him.
The woman followed immediately after him shouting, "Excuse me, what do you think you are doing?"
He ignored her. As he approached, the man - who looked to Wheatley like the most exercise he got was lifting a bottle of beer to his lips every ten minutes and, aside from that, utterly unremarkable - and two teenagers - who looked more flustered and less inclined to stare now that they were about to be confronted - gazed up at him in discomfort.
Apparently intent on protecting his own family, or at least putting on a show, the man stood up and confronted Wheatley as he approached, "What's your problem, buddy?"
"My problem? Oh, where to start with that," he let out a bitter laugh before pressing his teeth together and hissing an inhale through his teeth. He clapped his hands together once and rubbed them together, both in anticipation and in an attempt to contain himself. It wasn't working, not really, but it was a thread he was desperately clinging to at the moment. Really, he had a conglomeration of problems - not the least of which was the itch that was driving him so far out of his mind, he really, really wanted to shove the man's head into the lake and drown him were it not for the fact that murder was frowned upon in most human societies, "Well, first off, you and your loud-mouthed bint are a problem - two problems, actually, adding into one big problem."
"Look, we don't want any trouble," said the man, "Why don't you leave us alone and go back over to your spot."
"We were at our spot, mate. Minding our own business. And then you lot showed up."
"Yeah, and your wife needs to cover up. Plain and simple. There's no need to be a jerk about it. Mate."
Wheatley's eyes narrowed, "On second thought, let's not talk about my problem. Let's focus on your problem. Prob-lems, actually. Right now, I can see that you have two. First off, the problem you and your perverted family seem to have with minding your own business. Like I said to your wife, it seems you can't keep your eyes off other women's chests, presumably because you either don't respect them - women, in case your tiny little brain needed the clarification - or because your wife lacks much going on up there and you feel the need to seek it out elsewhere. But- you know what, I'm gonna go with both on that, judging by the look on your face. That's special right there. Please keep it up, it's great."
"Don't talk about my wife like that, you sicko," the other man growled, and Wheatley could see that he was quivering with his own anger.
But this did not worry Wheatley. He went on, ignoring him, "And your second problem - is me."
"Yeah? You want to make something of it?"
"Actually, you did first, but yes, yes I do. But I'm not really interested in fighting with you. I'm more interested in helping you. Buddy." As he spoke, he took a step closer to the table, his entire body tensed and ready for his next move. The man took a half step back in spite of his macho act, which was a bad move for him - it instantly fed a predator response into Wheatley's brain. His eyes darkened and he took another step forward. "You don't want to see her tits? Okay, fine, I get that. You want her to cover up? I can help you with that. But I have a better idea - why don't YOU cover up?"
And with that, he grabbed a handful of the tablecloth and gave it a great flourishing yank.
For a few seconds, it was almost as if time stood still. Hearts beat, eyes widened, the earth continued its revolution around the sun, and silhouetted against the whitewashed spring sky was several plates, unidentifiable clumps of food, silverware, cups, napkins, and at least one mobile phone, all of which remained suspended in the air for longer than necessary before landing on the ground in a cacophony of plops, splops, and flops. The two teenagers fell backwards off the bench in surprise while Wheatley noticed that the man's harpy bitch wife had joined them, her eyes following this mass in its arc across the sky, her mouth hanging open in disbelief.
While they were all distracted with that, he whipped the checkered table cloth around, going for a lasso effect but failing with the way the wind caught it and fluffed it wide open instead. This ultimately worked in his favor, though, for it made it easier for him to bring it down on the man's head, fully engulfing him with it. Caught completely off guard, the man tripped over himself and toppled over with a surprised shout, landing on the ground in a crumpled mass of tablecloth and ruined bravado.
Wheatley, on the other hand, was utterly gleeful, "Oh wow, that turned out even better than I had planned for!"
He then heard the woman shrieking at him again as she stooped to help untangle her husband from the mess, "I'm calling the police! You're crazy! You're crazy!"
"That's right, I am!" he snarled, rounding on her. The moment she made to flip open her mobile phone, Wheatley snatched it from her hands and lobbed it as hard as he could in the direction of the lake. The tiny splash he heard was a small consolation for the energy that had broken through the dam and was spilling out of him. At this point, he was hardly even aware of any of the bystanders, who stood staring, unwilling to intervene, perhaps for their own safety. He liked to think that they were cheering him on, because there was no way he was wrong about this. "So you'd better run far away from me, because I'm stark-raving bloody mad! You're just lucky there aren't any mashy spike plates out here, 'cause if there were- hrk!"
Wheatley gasped as he felt a tug on the back of his shirt, momentarily putting him off balance. He glanced back and saw it was Chell. She was giving him an urgent look and trying to pull him away with her one free hand while the other was busy trying to soothe their still-agitated son. She also appeared to have packed up their blanket, the cooler, and the baby bag, all slung over one shoulder in a way that looked massively uncomfortable for her.
"What? What's the problem? I was just taking care of a few things, like I said I would. We're almost finished here, I-" Another firm tug from her and he scowled, "What?" Her only response was to yank on him again, making her intention clear: "All right, fine, let's go then."
As she dragged him off, ducking her head against the onlookers, Wheatley turned his head back and shouted in their wake, "And you owe us a new tuna sandwich!"