A/N: Old file. Crap. Getting it out of my way.

Disclaimer: ...I don't have patience for this anymore. Dis shiz iz whack. I'm writing up a disclaimer for my profile and putting an end to this nonsense. I don't own "HA!" but I do own... everything else. Now leave.

I Don't Lie, I Act

Phil wasn't a good liar.

He never had been. Since the day he'd learned to speak, he'd spoken nothing but honestly. When his brothers broke the mint, pink vase in the living room that their mother was so proud of, he'd been the one to tell, in great and loudly exclaimed detail, right in front of his brother's horror stricken stands. When the principal called from school to ask why him and his father weren't present that morning, he calmly informed him they were pretending to be sick because his dad hated his guts and was trying to get him fired, resulting in a very long lecture from his dad and a few more days off school. Even when his parents found the crudely doodled impression of his grandmother's cat on the hallway walls and asked who'd done it, he had willingly admitted to the masterpiece, and had then proceeded to look at them funny for the rest of the day when they reacted less than enthusiastic at the discovery.

As he got older, he began to understand why people felt the need to keep secrets. As his father had a habit of reminding him nowadays, some things were better left unsaid. He had never understood that statement until one day at school when he was asked why he didn't talk much to anyone, and he stated simply, "You're all idiots and a complete waste of oxygen," which had resulted in detention and fifty written sentences on the board—If I have nothing nice to say, I will not say anything. If I have nothing nice to say, I will not say anything. If I have nothing nice to say, I will not say anything…

He had spoken very seldom at school since that day.

He had been six.

It was difficult for him not to speak when he was at home, though, and he rarely tried to hold back his comments of how stupid this show was, or how dumb that shirt made him look, or that yes, Mom, that dress does make you look fat. Luckily for him, they were all used to his bluntness and rarely reacted poor anymore, instead going on to blame themselves for asking in the first place, but after a while as he began trying to hold off from what his dad labeled as "cruel," he found that he in general had a difficult time not being honest with his thoughts.

He'd tried lying many times before. But it caused a great deal of effort on his part to force anything past his lips that went against his beliefs or feelings. A sweat would break out across his face, his words would crack, his hands would fidget. All he'd ever been able to manage were little half-truths and half-hearted grunts that could be interpreted as anything. He didn't understand lying. He resented the existence of it, and he didn't understand why anyone would want it of him, didn't understand what use it could be to him if all it did was make him queasy. So eventually, with his failed attempts and frustrations spent, he closed in on himself and stopped speaking all together.

That lasted all of two hours, before his mom asked him if he wanted mustard on his sandwich and he screamed that mustard was the cause of all things horrendous in the world and he would rather eat his own tongue than have it anywhere near him. His mother had simply blinked at the outburst, before asking if the same went for mayonnaise. He wilted and told her mayo was fine. Any attempts at an apology were lost in translation, but his mother seemed to empathize and said not a word on the matter.

When the day came he decided he wanted to be an actor, the need for the ability to lie seemed to make a little more sense. His brother made fun of him for his attempts, mockingly said he was trying far too hard and he wouldn't survive a day in Hollywood with his sweaty palms and shifting eyes. Phil rejected that idea, because acting was nothing like lying—acting meant you became an entirely different person, compromised the morals and emotions of someone that was not yourself—not that you had to look someone you knew and cared about in the eye and tell them something you knew with every fiber of your being was crap.

Zack had done that snort he liked to do, the one that was way too loud and entirely too out of the blue, and said that lying and acting were exactly the same—you had to lie to yourself that you weren't yourself in a scene, and had to pretend fiction was fact, which was no different than a regular fib. If anyone would know about such things, it would be Zack, who could lie through an unflinching grin and go on in his day unhindered by doubt, but Phil couldn't bring himself to believe that. They weren't the same to Phil—they were in completely different folders in his mind, categorized differently and with different purposes, and so he chose to ignore him.

A few attempts to audition for the plays at his new school proved there to be some truth to his brother's words, though, however miniscule—he found himself offended by the things in the script, and scandalized that anyone would write such rubbish and have the nerve to think he was going to play along with it. Rather than practicing lines, he'd spent the day painstakingly ripping each and every page into confetti before throwing it out his window.

The next day he gave the "director" a piece of his mind, and the man had told him that if he didn't like the play, he shouldn't have come. Phil was disgusted, and had then added "writer" to his list of things he was going to be someday, along with, as a bitterly satisfied afterthought, director as well. The only way to make sure things were done correctly was to do them all himself.

Acting wasn't anything like lying, as far as Phil was concerned, but there was such a thing as lying to the audience, which made him just as squirmy and disgusted. "Romeo and Juliet" had proven that to him, and he made a promise to himself that one day he would fix that heap of trash, and make it into something honest, something that wouldn't dump a bucket of thick, glazed sugar on top of the truth.

He hadn't acted since that day, but he did always make sure to be present during auditions and practices, and would be sure to give his two cents on things. He wasn't naïve to people's displeasure of him, hadn't been since he was a child, and wasn't blind to the director's sneers and backhanded comments. He was perfectly aware—he just didn't give two shakes. He'd scowl and lash back with comments twice as sharp and belittle Leichliter's inability to write anything less than sunshine and smiley faces. His fights and iron-laced outbursts with the teachers soon made it so kids would stand clear of him in the hallways, and he gladly sent them his sarcastic regards at the wariness written on their faces. As if he'd waste his time with them.

As time went on, him and Mr. Leichliter's fights would grow more and more ferocious, and it wasn't long before he was openly decreed "Mr. Leach eater" by Phil. The two-bit musical director went from school to school, producing crap shows and gaining praise he didn't deserve. He drove Phil out of his mind. Truth be told, the man had Phil's dream job. He'd love to go marching around producing this and that, playing with scripts and bossing people around. Which was perhaps another reason Phil hung around him so much. He liked to watch the magic happen, even if it was dishonest magic. In like, Mr. Leichliter never sent him away. In a weird way, Phil thought he looked fondly on him, which didn't make sense. Phil was always looking over his shoulder when he was writing, scoffing and sneering at the ridiculous, mushy things he wrote. The man was a marshmallow posing as black licorice.

He hated the man. The man hated him.

So it was only natural that the leach eater should hire him as his assistant on his fifteenth birthday. Phil just scoffed and said, "About time," before walking off to shred some scripts. It had been a relatively decent day. Though only those in drama club knew that he worked there—nobody else ever asked, or would suspect that the weird goth kid who glared at everyone was also the overdramatic, hostile director's assistant. And that was just the way Phil liked it.

It wasn't until he was sixteen Mr. Leichliter started giving him parts in the plays again. Phil had been taken aback and, admittedly, nervous, but he'd gone ahead with it. It wasn't until he'd read his script that he'd understood why he'd been assigned such a part—the cynical, grouchy homeless man. How befitting.

He'd gotten angry over it, and gone to ask just what the hell he was trying to say with giving him such a part, and it was then that the eater of leaches said something to him he'd never forget—some people were flexible and could bend into any roll they were assigned. They could become anyone, anything, no problem, whether they'd felt certain emotions required or not. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn't, but what made Phil different was that he was a character in and of himself. His raw, brutal honesty restricted him from ever being able to do such things, and he was essentially doomed to be assigned the same type of part every time he auditioned.

Phil was naturally offended by such a statement, but once Leichliter started listing out names like Whoopee Goldberg, Jack Black, and Tim Allan in comparison to him, he started to understand. It wasn't so much a step back as it was he was just… good at being an asshole. It was incredulity and passion that were his strengths, and although he wasn't particularly flexible in many other roles, he was at least well-versed in those regards. People hired for strengths like that, it was like a gimmick. It was just his particular brand of expertise. Chocolate ice cream may not be strawberry ice cream or vanilla, and it couldn't magically turn into them, but people still loved it and it was grossing around five point one billion dollars a year. That was what Phil was. He was the type of guy to point out what was wrong in a room and make callous remarks about it. And, odd as it was, people dug that when it wasn't being directed at them. Typical.

The fact was that Phil's honesty could have either made or broken him. But luckily for him, it just made him raw, which was just what any good actor needed. He couldn't think of acting like a lie in the first place anyway—then it would be too much like playing dress up and smiling for the camera. When he acted, he became someone else. Someone who was himself but not himself at the same time. There was no camera, there were no lights, it was just life. The life of someone angry and smiling about it, because why the hell not? His talent in scoffing at the "baby" stuff in plays offered great comic relief apparently… So in the end, honesty truly did pay, he supposed, and he was glad it was in his nature.

Mr. Leach Eater was still a douche bag, though.

A/N: I don't know if this makes any sense whatsoever. It wasn't where I thought I was going with it, but the thought's there... I... guess... Ugh. Ignore this. Moving on.

Update: Phil's chapter outline is close to finished. Once it is, I'm going to write the first chapter and post. Maybe sometime by the end of December or early to mid January. It's had me more or less incapacitated for a while now. xD

So far the outline includes lots of peppy, Broadway star Olga interfering in anything and everything, horrified Helga questioning her choices in life, Arnold purchasing earplugs with a bag of pennies, Oskar getting pummeled with pans, child mobsters illegally selling snacks, Phil questioning his existence (also vomiting and basically having a total conniption and mental breakdown, woohoo), Zack and Pam fighting nonstop (while married), Mike being introduced and deciding Zack's an a-hole (who's surprised?), Zack making out with Sophie in front of a bunch of teachers, Eugene being... Eugene, Mr. Leach Eater doing his dizzy thang yo, and Ham trying his level-best to stay out of it all and failing. With the help of his BFF Kori, of course. Oh, and the entire thing's a musical, btw. SO MUCH FUN. Ha.

Well, back to my hole. And math. And a bath. And decaf. And... and... a calf. OKAY BAI.

REVIEW!