The Untitled DrakexJosh Fanfiction
By Harrison Gillette
Special Thanks to Dan Schneider
The year: 2021.
Drake Parker: Missing.
Josh Nichols: Last seen operating a red 2012 Honda Civic in downtown Ulysses, KS moments before a gas leak from the local paper refinery leveled the entire town. Missing, presumed dead.
Megan Parker: Unable to cope with psychological trauma. Currently under the care of Aurora Behavioral Healthcare Hospital in San Diego, CA.
Walter Nichols: After the loss of his son, joined the Peace Corps to protect the lives of others. Currently working throughout British Columbia to raise awareness about the disappearance of First Nation women, and teaching preventative measures to the affected tribes.
— Parker: Mother of Drake Parker. Admitted to the C.I.A. after gruelling studying following the disappearance of her son. Currently Head of Surveillance.
. . .
But that's not the full story, is it?
Drake Parker was blissfully unaware of the truth until his first semester at Loyola Marymount University, as a Music Studies major. There's a looser hold on him that far north: a few operatives keeping tabs and an extra camera or two, but this is the only freedom that Drake had experienced. He had free access to the media, to the internet, to knowledge. Once he realized the truth, he flew to the West.
Josh Nichols knew it from the beginning. He was always the clever one, hiding in the shadows in sheep's clothing and waiting for his opportunity. Josh stayed in San Diego, in the house he and his brother were raised in. He, as always, played it smart and safe: two years at community college, then transfer to any Ivy League school that would have him. He heard the news of his brother's disappearance on New Years' Eve, 2007. He wanted to take Megan with him. He couldn't. He drove East.
The brothers were finally united under one truth, but only one was destined to survive the inoculation.
See, you can get a kid to believe anything. Buy a house, weasel your way onto the Board of the local school district. Put cameras everywhere—you really only have to hide the ones in the house. In a public place, nobody bats an eye when they see a "security" camera hanging from the ceiling. The rest was easy. Adoption can take years just for one child, but the proper channels can put two on your doorstep within the month. Then you just have to let the cameras capture the rest.
Drake just happened to watch The Truman Show. Josh finally realized he wasn't a born loser, he was chosen to be a loser. The how, the why, the who: all of it remained a mystery to them.
Drake Parker is 32 years old, grey streaks dividing his shoulder-length hair into long, vertical shafts. He works as a humble stonemason in the boonies outside Bantayan, in the Philippines. Turns out learning the language wasn't as difficult as he was expecting. Or rather, learning how to make a living was impossible by comparison. Drake could recall scraps from his classes growing up, but he had no marketable skills outside of his complete mastery of the guitar. When first he landed in this country, off a small, unsuspecting freighting vessel, Drake had no money, no connections, no knowledge that kept him from the harsh reality of his situation. He begged on the streets, fought dogs and people alike for enough food to live another day. Months passed, each day a miracle to live through. Before a year had been spent, however, a woman passed him and, by some miracle, grabbed the boy's hand and dragged him back to a small, unassuming shack. First, they boned. HARD. There was a ruckus allllllll around the house, and the neighbors were like "shut up" but in Tagalog. Two vases were broken. One was sexually motivated. After their bits were all worn out from the thrusting and gooshing, she spoke to him in English:
"Young man."
"Yes, baby?"
Drake was too lost in the afterglow in the intensity and passion of the raw dogging he just received to realize that she could speak English.
"I will teach you to work. Stand."
Drake stood.
"From now on," she ordered, "you will address me as Master. I will teach you to carve stone."
No further words were spoken. Drake spent years tiring away for his teacher, starting with small utility pieces or repairs, until he could carve sculptures more real and more beautiful even than the thing they represented. It wasn't until he completed a magnificent marble statue of a local dignitary that his Master spoke the words he had thirsted for through over a decade of tireless work.
"Boy."
"Yes, Master."
She paused for a moment, showing flickers of uncertainty across her oft-emotionless face.
"Your training is complete. Come."
Drake nutted. There was a good twenty seconds of silence before she corrected him. They walked back to the shop they had operated together, trying the whole time not to think about what Drake just did.
"I have two things to share with you. Have a seat."
Drake sat.
"What's going on, Master?"
"From now on, you will call no one your Master. You have perfected your craft and are fit to run a shop along your own."
"Can I take on apprentices, too? Just like you, uh…"
The stonemason's lips curled into a smile, her eyes misty with sentiment.
"Helen."
Silence.
More silence.
Recognition.
Helen ran The Premiere. The memory almost feels like a past life, the movie theater he loved so much. Josh used to work there too.
Josh, my brother, where are you? I have sent out for you, I have not forgotten you. I will find you.
"Drake."
He snapped back to reality. Oops, there goes gravity. The face in front of him was mangled from wear and age, overrun with scars, but he sees Helen now. Tears ran down both their cheeks and buttcheeks.
"Drake, I have more to tell you."
Drake was shaking. "Do you know anything about what happened to me?"
"All I have for you is a letter."
Helen produced a yellowed envelope with a limited-edition "The Promised Land" Easter 1998 stamp, and held it in front of Drake. It smelled like lemons.
"Stay here. You have made a good life for yourself. However…"
She sighed.
"If you want to know more, open this envelope. But do so at great risk, Drake. There's no putting that cat back in its bag."
Drake took the envelope, turning it over in his hands. No return address, not even a delivery address. It only says "Drake".
There is no way of resealing a genie in its bottle without complying with its game.
You may request three boons, but beware the trickery of your own wishes.
Drake awakens in a cold sweat. The year is 2021, in the swell of June. He hasn't seen Helen since that day. He unclenches the envelope in his hands, crumpled and soiled by years of obsession. It smells of sweat and lemons. The day passes like all others before it. The hands work on the stone, and the mind wages war against his lust for knowledge. Day in, day out. Chip away at stone. Chip away the thoughts that arise. Do nothing, think nothing. This night is different. A passion rises in Drake like never before. It feels as if a fire were cooking his guts from within, and he can no longer bear it. Taking just enough caution not to destroy its contents, Drake tears into the envelope like a bear tears apart bear pussy. A single polaroid falls to the floor. Drake picks it up, and reels at its contents.
It's a dick pic.
Fuck yeah.
Drake wastes no time. He never wears pants, so he has easy access to his schwang. The picture features one of the meatiest hogs he's ever laid eyes on, cocked slightly to the side with just the best set of balls imaginable. Wow. They are exactly like what he likes to see in balls, to a tee. Fuck. Drake is already hammering away down there, while staring intensely at the bounty before him. Man, the things he'd like to do to that thing are unconscionable. Licking, touching, etc….
Drake finishes. It's like a Super Soaker CPS 2000, the strongest Super Soaker, shooting out that nasty stuff down there. Pew pew.
After a good 30-minute recovery cry, Drake remembers why he opened the envelope in the first place. He rushes back to the photo, careful not to get too balls-horny by looking at it. There are no defining features on this log of a cock, and the background is pitch black. Drake shakes the envelope upside down in hopes that something more will fall out, but nothing does. Drake decides that he needs to take a bath to be smart enough to figure this out, so he places next to his U.V. lamp and 3 really cool weed plants on his desk.
Drake has a luxurious bath. He came up with a great recipe for bubble baths that does approximately 3 times the bubbles of a name-brand bubble bath solution, and smells like buttery popcorn which is honestly a mixed bag. He stays in that bad boy until his toes look like an old person's outer elbow (or wenis, if you will). He is relaxed, refreshed, and ready to consensually wreck this puzzle's butthole apart. He walks back to his room above the shop only to realize that the envelope was smudged with something bright yellow. Drake is confident enough in his short-term memory to know that this yellow stuff wasn't there before bathtime (if he had a nickel for everytime he heard that). Upon closer inspection, these smudges look almost like they used to be letters. Drake spots an F, and then an N, and soon enough he can read the message.
F I N D
M E
END ACT I
Time
