I got a real short one here for you guys, but I managed to move the plot along by like, 10 miles. I know I changed stuff up with the writing style because of it but lets just forget about that for now, okay?

Let me tell you this right now, okay? . When I say that Ivan is dumb, I don't mean it in a literal way. You get what I mean? I'm sure he's traditionally very smart, just like me, but he lacks… a certain 'penis-say-waaa?' (Je nu sais quoi: Literal translation 'I dont know what.' My translation: 'Whatever the fuck' But also 'Penis-say-waaa?'. Don't tell Matthew I looked this up, and if you're reading forgettable twin, I didn't look it up, so shut it.) if you get my drift?

Like, for me, I know I push a few buttons now and again, but I know i'm doing it. I do it for the fun of it. I love it. He… Sits his ass down on your emotional control panel and lets his ass cheeks go all Beethoven on that shit. In the end you can't even HANDEL the emotional turmoil and you just start HAYDEN-ing him, you know? You would understand if you were in my situation.

Oh! That's right! My situation! I bet your pretty interested in how I got involved in this three and a half year time jump with me in the middle of a heated gun battle against Ivan's little (Lol large) Underground-mafia-Revenge group with me teamed up with a band of Chinese opium dealers after running away from a separate but also very-important-Swedish-Underground-Mafia group? Yea, I bet you are! Super fun that story.

But don't worry about that right now! We will get to that part, right now we have to get back to whatever-the-fuck was going on before. What was it? Oh yea! Contemplating murder after some vodka glass or something got broke. Fucked my hand up that one. Hold on. I need to get into character again. I had to take an emotional dump break, you know?

Back to why Ivan's not dumb, but is. You see, I got the glass taken care of, which only left getting the gun, murdering him, getting back to the home country, and then maybe seeking some counseling for the trauma that was bound to happen from the murder of my Stockholm syndrome inducing molester-kidnapper who almost single handedly fueled my sexuality crisis. I think the word 'child' should be thrown in there somewhere? Anyway, I'm a great planner, but that's not really how life goes for people like me.

You see, I left the kitchen and tore that house apart. Not carefully may I add. I walked out of the kitchen, putting the bandages on as I went, and looked around the poorly described 'nice' house of Ivan's in the middle of the the Arctic, which was also having its yearly summer. Convenient anyone? I dare say so! It was an absolute fiasco!

I tore paintings off the wall, stuffing from the couch, shoes were thrown across the room, the piano was touched in ways that now one as tone deaf as me should ever touch a piano, books were in the fish tank, the tv was facing the wall, the bed was against the door, and no where, AND I MEAN NOWHERE, was there a single gun. My plan was ruined before it had even begun and the house was ruined.

What did I do about it? Nothing at first. Instead I sobbed for hours over a photo album I found in the trunk, just looking at every picture and touching the memories of faces I would probably never see again. I got really hung up on the the picture of Matt, Jack and I. It was Jack's first ever BBQ and it was in my backyard. My father was in the background at the grill, Jack's parents were next to him looking very concerned at us, and my arms were slung over the shoulders of my sibling (Who was cut off right down the middle) and my (brand new) best friend. Jack and I both had yellowing black eyes, and he had a swollen split lip. I was smiling like the best thing in the world had just happened, Matthew had a sweet smile on his face, and Jack looked like he was dead inside.

You see, I had beat the crap out of him only days before because he punched me in the face after he thought I called him 'Jap'. The older boys were chanting 'Jap, Jap, samurai Jap!" and I heard 'Jack, Jack, Samurai Jack!" One thing lead to another and he was Jack to me from that point on. He was also the turning point to my curving sexuality, but let's not dwell on that just yet.

I fell asleep on the floor, clutching the photos. I woke up the next day, cold and alone, on the floor in the middle of a massive mess, with a splitting headache. After a quick walk through the house and a few glances out the window, I determined Ivan was nowhere in sight. I cleaned up everything as quickly as I could, and swept up anything broken that could not be saved. In the end it wasn't that big of a problem. Ivan didn't come back for three days, and when he did he just opened the door and looked me over before disappearing again.

I followed him out, asking a few questions, but he was gone almost as quickly, driving east into the never setting sun. I had plenty of time to explore after that, and I don't know when he came back either. Let's just say I was gone for a while.