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Lazur sits at the booth, the restaurant dim as always, black interior, cold morning light through half-drawn curtains. He wears blue jeans and a green field jacket and worn-out combat boots, black stripping to gray.
The only reason he knows about this place is because as a child he was taken in search of what was supposedly his dadâs favorite restaurant. They drove for hours looking for it as his dad explained the virtues of this particular location, hinting that it would reunite them with something that had been taken from them, imparted by proximity to an authentic mode of production, something honest and true pertaining to manhood and culture. Lazur still isnât sure if this is the restaurant, or another restaurant his dad settled on in lieu of the perfect, still-undiscovered ideal, in whose absence their masculine trajectories have suffered. When they ate here, his dad seemed vaguely subdued, which his child-self didnât think much of, but decades later he tried to decode the cloud of adult emotion in retrospect. Perhaps it was the restaurant, but it wasnât as good as his dad remembered. Perhaps it would have been better never to find it at all.
Itâs been awhile, but no one has come for his order. He sees a few other people eating, served before he arrived. An old man looks around, waiting for service, and Lazur gets the tripped-out notion that his dad never left, and has been aging here the whole time. But his dad has come apart in his memory, and looking at photos doesnât help.
It might just be staffing issues. But thereâs a pressure in the back of his head. He knows when time is missing, when a countdown has begun. It takes place in that empty space, that deceptive silence, the time people refuse to give a name, the time they waste.
He goes to the back, lays his hand against a door, then pushes. The hum of the street and the murmur of diners disappears.
The room is dark, the lights are off, but something glows from the floor. He thinks of a hologram. The floor is broken like a pipe leaking phosphorescent gas. It has familiarity, like looking at a waterfall, a phenomena of pure motion cheated by a lens to a static image. Chunks of concrete are suspended in the air as if from invisible wires. The still image is optically unstable, as if projected by a light source or the wires are vibrating. The light is a gradient of fire colors, separated starkly into whites and warms, debris jeweled with chromatic aberration.
In front of the spectacle, a tiny table is set with food.
Lazur reaches under his jacket just as Rubicon rolls into view. Dark segments split the ruin of his flesh into hemispheres, as if a Fordite figurine had facets of black diamond. The light is harsh and eerie, making it difficult to parse the material.
âMiss me?â
Lazurâs hand trembles inside his jacket, the grip of his gun squeezed choking tight. He canât trust himself to draw. âWhat is it this time? The trolley problem except this time the trolley is going to roll over my dick? Is that, that your brilliant plan, the latest plan from the mind of the incredible genius?â
Rubicon flinches, then something like a smile pulses in the quasi-clitoral migration of his melted lips across his cheek. âWhat do you think it is?â
Lazur stares into the oozing conflagration. A swelling cloud of heat and shock and rubble and heâs seen it before, in a fraction of a second. âA bomb.â
âA slow bomb.â
âHow slow?â
âThe blast escapes in twenty minutes.â Rubicon follows his gaze into the suspended explosion. âIsnât it beautiful? The world breaking slow, superheated, stochasticââ
âWhat do you want?â
âEat with me.â
âWhat?â
âEat with me and Iâll give everyone the chance to leave. Does that satisfy your twisted sense of morality? You freak?â
He parses what Rubicon is wearing now. A tight little black dress.
Rubicon says, âItâs covered by their insurance. This restaurant has been struggling for years. Your conscience is clean.â
âSomeone will notice.â
âThe bomb is surrounded by a weaker version of the field. Weâre technically in the shockwave. Can you feel the tension? That whisper? This entire dinner will take twenty seconds.â
Lazur allows disdain to arm his voice. âYou need someone to talk to that bad?â
It must take a deliberate effort and tilt of the head for Rubicon to keep saliva from dripping from his mangled mouth, that busted dam of teeth and lip, because heâs gushing, eyes furious. âNeed? I donât need anyone.â He wipes his mouth. âI was just thinking about you in those hotel rooms being so sad, and when I saw you going to the gun range, I thought, this guy, heâs going to shoot his brains out one night and itâll be so anticlimactic, after all the effort I put into ruining your life. And your birthday was coming up, and you know the birthday effect, statistically itâs very dangerous for people like you. So I wanted to cheer you up.â
âThat makes perfect sense. They call you a terrorist because youâre good at making people happy.â
Rubiconâs eyes disappear for a second, lids like fleshworld camouflage. âI have friends.â
âFriends?â
âI donât know. Colleagues.â
Lazurâs stomach growls, eating away his center, he sits down, arms detached from his nauseous body, shaking on the table as he stares at the napkin covering his plate, pure and clean and heâs sure whatever lays beneath is none of those things. âWhatâs with the dress?â
The slow bomb glitters and glows and tunnels in the backdrop, chiseling iridescence into the tight dark fabric wrapped around Rubiconâs body. âYou know how when your body is severely deformed, generic menâs fashion looks even worse?â
âYeah. I heard all about that.â
âIt sags and hangs around me, makes me look like a crispy kid.â
âThe bomber jacket was pretty funny.â
âYeah. Haha.â
The tight, thin fabric fits the blasted body like an alien sheath, burnt shoulders bare, an elegance of sinew, recurve clavicles catching the light along snaking curves. A bent foot rests naked on the floor, big toe missing, strangely dainty without it. The other foot is fused together, smooth as a slipper.
Rubicon is embarrassed at Lazurâs scrutiny. He tucks a shred of blond hair back and it falls again, no ear to hold it, just a vestigial acoustic flower.
Lazur says, âIsnât there some kind of reconstructiveâŠâ
âThis is the reconstruction.â The uncanny acoustics of that laugh. âSome parts of me, the best they could do is make a container for my organs. Such as they are. I take a lot of meds.â
âYou could get, you know, a face or something.â The shredded mask of Rubiconâs surviving facial skin is surrounded by a patchwork of synthetic grafts faded to different colors around ridges of bone and shrapnel. Lazur has the idle thought of picking at that skin and peeling it away until thereâs nothing to contradict the monstrous reality. How long would Rubiconâs sense of humor last under his nails? Tugging at a corner of it like a vicious childâs earlobeâ
âI thought about trying radical surgery. But it wouldnât go on clean. Bad CG. Play-do. I. I wouldnât look like myself.â Rubiconâs labored breathing fills the silence. âSometimes I wake up thinking I still look the way I did. The other half of the time, I canât remember being any other way.â
The slow bomb grows in the background, lighting his face with cold and hot light, shadows draining across the extreme waste of his scars. He sucks mucus back into his labyrinthine sinuses. âArenât you hungry?â
Lazur hesitates.
âCome on. If I wanted to kill you. Well. You know.â
Lazur peeks under the napkin on his plate. âItâs not some kind of bomb food?â
âDonât give me ideas.â
Under the napkins: pierogi, pickled beets, and an amber glass of kvass, hyper-real in the bomb-light. Pan from Lazurâs picture-perfect plate, pierogi glistening with oil, beets brilliantly amaranthine, to Rubiconâs side, his skeletal fingers gripping a cup of beige sludge swirled with purple.
How fucking nice, to see your enemy punished by an inalienable doom of their anatomy. âHow do you feel knowing everything you eat will have to be blended like baby food for the rest of your life?â Lazur forks a pierogi into his mouth, chewing it blatantly.
Rubicon stares into his sludge. âYouâre really doing the psychowhatsit, arenât you?â He licks his fragile teeth which canât chew without breaking. âWhat does it taste like?â
âYou have a cup right there.â
Rubicon scratches his melted face. âYou donât get the texture when itâs blended together. Itâs just not the same.â
âThe textureâŠâ Lazur takes another bite of pierogi. âKind of gummy. Bland, comforting carb breaks apart, warm meat on the inside.â
Rubicon listens, chin propped on his hand. Heâs probably not aware of the drool leaking through the hole in the corner of his mouth, those salivary vents webbing his cheek. Or he just doesnât care anymore.
Lazur tries the horseradish and pickled beets. âThe ÄwikĆa burns. I donât know how to describe it. Pure. Stinging. Wet. Kind of sweet. Itâs good, a little nasty, itâs like someoneâs mother made it and doesnât give a fuck.â
âI didnât think youâd tell me. Thanks.â
âItâs not really the best pierogi. Over-boiled, under-seasoned.â He chews impassively, then swallows. âI never thought about it much. But maybe I come here because. If a place like this can stick around, even if itâs not the best, and the food is hit or miss, and the service isnât friendly, but people keep coming anyway, then maybeâŠâ He looks away. âItâs like. Some days youâre the only one in here and itâs dark and quiet and it feels like it belongs to you.â
âYes,â Rubicon says. âI understand.â
The slow explosion crackles like gravel waterfalls or icebergs breaking apart.
Lazur says, âWhy do you do it?â
Rubicon picks at his burnt hand. âYou know I love the third degree.â
âIâm serious. Deterministic games only. Perfect information.â
Rubicon leans over the table, dress sagging, flat chest spiraling stitches into darkness. âOkay, Laz. I got a gold star and I never looked back. Everyone is like that, right? You do something and youâre rewarded for it so you keep doing it. Zap. Zap. My dopamine, your dopamine. Weâre two people who are good at our jobs and it screwed us together like, two worms eating toward the core of an apple.â
âOr a bomb.â
The burnt skin stretches at the corner of Rubiconâs mouth. âBomb for teacher.â
âIt canât be that simple. Not with you.â
âYouâre stable. Iâm volatile. It has a timeless cosmic, uh, resonance archetype kinda thing.â
âThatâs the TV version. You didnât always know me.â
âIââ
âIâm talking. It didnât have to be bombs. Itâs a transferable skillââ
âBut not a transferable emotion.â
âWhat gave you that emotion?â
Rubicon swirls the straw, staring into the vortex of pureed pierogi. âMy dad, I guess. It felt good having my own thing. Really really good. And then it was money, lots of money, money my dad didnât control. Itâs money, you know? It means youâre doing something right.â
Lazur sucks pierogi off his fork, exposing the gleaming metal. He considers the effect those tines would have on the inviting, vulnerable mucous membranes across from him.
âSo one fine summer day, I stopped needing my dad.â
Lazur looks up. “I thought his jet had a malfunction.â
âIt sure did. And the pieces are still washing up.â
âSounds cathartic.â
âThe feeling didnât stick.â
âIt never does. You can die chasing it. You almost did. So stop.â
âHaha. I donât know if I can.â
âWhy not?â
Rubicon swirls his sludge with the straw. âItâs, uh. Itâs kind of getting out of control.â Nervous laugh. âDonât look at me. This is your fault.â
âWhat?â
âYou sabotaged my shipments. My deals. I had to cooperate with other people.â
âNot getting along with your friends?â
âCall it artistic differences.â
In that dress, you can see the cable management of Rubiconâs body, surgically streamlined just enough to survive. A pair of wire cutters could disable it in two snips. Lazur peels his eyes away. âYou have to stop.â
âYou canât stop being a terrorist. Because if youâre not the terrorist, you’re justâŠterrified.â
Lazur sips his kvass, cold and sweet with a tender bite. He understands the impossibility of what he asked. Because heâs the same, from the other side. âYou have to keep an eye on the terror.â
âSee? Youâre the same. Youâre hooked on this bomb pussy.â
âI wouldnât use those exact words.â
âWhat words would you use?â
Lazur doesnât respond. He canât do this, not with him.
Tick tick tick.
Rubicon cranes his head, just scar tissue from this angle. âI never heard you make that sound before.â
âWhat sound?â
âTick tick tick. My mouth is the wrong shape, thatâs not right. What do you call that. Plosive. Thatâs perfect, Laz. Youâre ex-plosive.â
âJust a habit.â
A skully smile from Rubicon. âTic seems more appropriate.â
âVery funny.â
âTic tic tic. You sound like a little clock.â
Lazur catches himself making the sound again and forces his teeth apart, hot breath jetting through.
âSo, Laz. What makes you tick?â
Lazurâs throat clicks.
âEver talk to a therapist?â
âMy trauma is classified.â
âTell me, then.â
âWhy would I do that?â
Rubicon sags in his wheelchair, looking dizzy from the act of speaking so long, but unable to stop himself. âBecause you can tell me your stupid feelings and you wonât get in trouble.â
âYou really want to hear about my boring, shitty life?â
âBetter hurry before your little ticker runs out.â
Lazur rubs his dark hair, silver threads coming loose through his fingers. He knows the alcohol is lowering his inhibitions, but if he doesnât get the words out, he never will. âI feel as aimless as I was in my early 20s. I sit around and eat, or sit around and donât eat. The TV is on but I donât remember a thing I saw in the last six months. I check my phone for no reason. Maybe I had a reason when I was picking it up, but nothing ever happens, so I donât know what it could be.â He takes a sip of kvass, then another, but the dryness in his mouth won’t leave. âI canât play my favorite games anymore. All those explosions. I try playing games without explosions. The numbers keep counting down. I drink and it feels bad. I try my favorite snacks and itâs like Iâm eating cardboard. Nothing does it for me anymore. Itâs like being in my early twenties again but I canât enjoy anything. Nothing to look forward to. And my job. My stupid career. Iâm not fixing anything. Iâm just making shit fall apart more slowly.â
Rubicon smiles in delight. âYouâre so depressing. You have these sick lines in the corners of your eyes like someone tried to cut them open.â
âItâs the anticipation. Itâs killing me.â
âDonât make me jealous.â Rubicon tries to suck liquefied pierogi through his straw and canât get enough suction, it drains back down, leaving a sticky mess on his chin. âHow does it feel, being old?â
âIâm not that old, you were just raised on anime where 40 year olds look like children.â
âJeez, Laz. I never needed those bombs to make you blow up.â
Lazur realizes the question was asked with genuine curiosity, and feels kind of bad. âI used to think 20 was the cutoff. Like a lot of stupid kids. Then I thought 30. It had to be 30. But nothing happened. Okay. 40. Thatâs the cutoff. But I donât feel any different. Thatâs the thing about getting older. It happens so slowly. You have time to get used to it. Itâs a mercy.â
Something changes in the air. Discomfort. Awkward silence.
âBut you didnât. One second you were young, hot, had the whole world ahead of you. Then,â he snaps his fingers and Rubicon twitches. âYou were like this.â
Rubicon stiffens with rage, then his lips stretch in a smile, eyes a little too wide. âThatâs right, baby. Iâm the human sunk cost fallacy.â He touches his blast-sculpted face with the stumps of his fingers. âAnd itâs not like it was an act of God. I did it to myself. Right? Poetic justice.â He waves his mutilated hand and the elbow bends hypermobile, loose as a puppet. âThis is all anyone will ever see. So why should I bother being anything different?â
âYou donât look human. So you donât feel human.â
âYeah.â Rubicon stares at the bomb, death-light filling the gutters of his face.
Lazur is uncomfortable with this uncharacteristic silence, it fills with ticking tinnitus. âI had this dream once, I was a black smear on a concrete floor. From an explosion that happened before the dream even started. I thought that was it for me. Until I woke up. And if you wake up like this every dayâŠâ
Rubicon stares off, ear hole facing the man across the table.
âBut I think you felt deformed before that bomb ever hit you.â
Rubiconâs head dips forward. âHeheh. Heheheh.â He looks up, the light glazing his eyes white as a deep sea fish. âYou got me. Iâm ugly as shit. Inside out.â
âDid I say that?â
âItâs true, though. Itâs your job to look at a box and know whatâs in it. What cutting this wire will do, even if you canât see what it connects to.â The slow bomb shines in his shattered pupil. âYou want perfect information, Lazur? My nostrils, burnt. My eardrums burst. I canât feel through half my fingers. Iâm numb all over, or itching like crazy. Insane in the mucous membrane.â Scratch scratch scratch, fast like a dog. âThereâs nothing to contradict what my mind tells me, even if itâs delusional.â The slow explosion grows like a concrete crowning sun, illuminating the membrane and vein of Rubiconâs eyes, taut from fluid pressure, blue rings floating in blood, irises collapsed, darkness flowing from behind, corectopic avulsions of black, pupil warped like a crushed olive. âThereâs no release.â He chokes on saliva, leaning forward to spit on the floor. His lips shine, a fractured gloss. He pants as if caged inside his own skull. âDo you get it yet?â
A scent of ash escapes the tight temporal core of the bomb. Lazurâs nostril twitches.
Rubiconâs leg tilts to the side, a lazy motion that exposes darkness cupped by the skirt, held safe from the bomb-light. His underwear is smooth and tight. The only thing inside that black strip is the spinal outline of a catheter tube. Lazur canât even swallow, bits of food in his teeth like surgical dregs.
âSo I watch you from this ruined body. Jerking you off like a walking dick. Getting your shoulders rock hard. Milking your adrenal gland like a prostate.â
He tilts his hand back, fingers splayed cuntily, the delicate phalanges looking unnaturally long in contrast to the crude stumps of his missing digits, like a grove of half-cut aspens. âAll that stuff I told you. Money. My dad. I think it was true. Even if I was trying to impress you a little. But the only thing that matters is. Iâm incredibly smart and incredibly bored and youâre going to pay for it. So why havenât you tried to kill me yet?â
Lazurâs eyes flick away for a millisecond. âBecause your guys are back there. And theyâre going to shoot me.â
âYou think Iâd let some thugs watch us?â
âYou obviously have an assurance of some kind.â
Rubiconâs smile is hard to read in the tug of scar tissue, lips stuck like bubble gum to the scar mask of his face. This close, Lazur can hear the sucking of saliva, the whistle of that lung. Like a machine he wants to fix because of an annoying sound, or at least percussively maintain. He gets a flash of his dadâs hand slapping the side of an air conditioner.
Rubicon says, âAre you going to kill me?â
The kvass fills Lazur with subtle alcoholic heat, a warmth mild enough to slip under his defenses. âI have a moral obligation to snap your neck.â
Rubiconâs tongue flicks between his lips, wet and pink through the dry scar tissue. âIs that how you wanna do it?â
âI donât want a drop of you on me when it happens. I just want you to disappear.â
âCome on. I humiliated you in front of the world. Then I put a stick of dynamite up your ass. And you donât know how youâre going to kill me? You seriously neverââ
Lazur stands up so fast everything on the table rattles. He kicks it and it hits the glacial explosion, freezing in the air as if stuck on translucent glue. There is nothing between them except slow heat, Rubiconâs skeletal form exposed in the wheelchair, a single lung working overtime, and Lazur tall, one hand in his jacket, the other clenched at his side. âItâs hard to pick, when youâre brittle like a twig all over. You know the kind? You see it on the trail path and you snap it without a single thought.â
Rubiconâs chest swells lopsided under the black dress with the exertion of his breathing. âThatâs not your style. You like to put things back together.â A plate fragments, ceramic shards flying in formation. âBut thereâs a mess coming even you canât clean up.â Skeletal smile. âThatâs what scares you, doesnât it? Knowing even when hope is gone, youâll be out there counting grains of sand.â
âStop fucking with me.â
âWhat else can I do? My brain is on fire and I donât have a fucking bodyââ
Lazur grabs his arm and Rubicon gasps, his stringy arm burning like barbecue, this unexpected, electric fire touch from disgusting peasant fingers. He licks his lips, tongue caught in the divots of his burst mouth. He still holds the straw from his flung cup, beige slime dripping from the tip, splatting on Lazurâs dark boot which weighs on the wheelchair footrest, keeping it immobile, until the man starts to apply pressure and the wheelchair skids back an inch, into the heat from the bomb, crawling waves of thermal energy, each pore caressed in slow motion. Most of Rubiconâs sweat glands were burnt off, but a patch of face still shines, a dripping crescent moon. Lazur is inches away, no expression, just his heavy lids and the jut of his lip, clinical as if he was inspecting a bomb.
Rubicon stammers, âWhat, what are you doing?â
A surprised look. âThe thing about missing a bunch of nerves, is you canât tell Iâve had a gun pressed to your knee for about five seconds.â
Rubicon swallows, a loud wetness through his deformed sinuses. Then he laughs and itâs like his face is swimming up through a sea of gore.
âWhat?â
âYouâre shaking. Are you excited?â He bites his lip, studying the man with the gun against him. âOrâŠscared?â
A drop of sweat lands on the barrel of the gun. âItâs a trick.â
Inscrutable scar-gaze. âMaybe. If you could kill me with zero repercussions, would you?â
Lazur doesnât respond.
âYou never killed someone before, did you?â
âI donât want to kill anyone, ever.â
âLazur the super-pacifist.â
He never thought of himself in those terms before. He had aggressive fantasies and behaved aggressively with other men in the institutions that preceded this slow bomb Slavic restaurant encounter. But Rubiconâs hideous violence seems to have a polarizing effect that makes certain details of his past stand out, the same as when he figured out he liked guys. Perhaps pacifism is a sexuality, or a sub-category, top or bottom, detonate or defuse.
He looks through the frozen icicles of chemical flame, into the unknowable violent core of combustion. In this still frame, it looks unreal, like a bad effect, a cheap and ugly rip in the world. âI just want to protect people. And that protection canât be partial. Once you make an exception, something is broken.â
The kneecap under his gun listens.
âThere has to be someone who cares. I used to work atâyou know. And when I was assigned overseas, sitting around with the guys, you hear them talk, and. If youâre an EMT, nurse, agent, life or death, someone trying to fix this, this damage, you have a responsibility to, you know, no matter how stupid they are, no matter what they did, even if they killed someoneâyouâre where the killing stops, and anything else can even be possible. I canât stop just because itâs ugly or no one wants to do it. ItâsâŠâ
âItâs a dirty bomb but someone has to defuse it.â
Lazur pulls the gun back, looking disgusted. âAll that clever shit and smiling and being ironic. I was that way at your age too. I didn’t understand it meant no one could have a simple conversation with me.â
Rubicon sits there, burning with embarrassment. âIâI donât want you to think Iâm not a serious person.â
âWhy do you even care what I think?â
Rubicon shifts in his seat like his bony ass doesnât have enough padding to sit comfortably. Lazur catches the gleam of a catheter bag. Rubicon stares at him with a hard fury, as if to say, look at the least humiliating most in control parts of me, get skewered on these eyes. âI was the best. My whole life. Then you showed up. Older than me. The only one who can stop me.â
Rubicon breathes hard through his nose, lips pressed tight and trembling, sinuses sawing like catgut. âMy talent is the only reason anyone takes me seriously. So when you make me look replaceableâŠâ Some kind of liquid shines through the holes of his face, tears or sweat or saliva or both. âIf Iâm not the best, Iâm just a freak in a wheelchair.â
The explosion looms, eating through debris with blinding fangs.
âAnd the worst part was, it didnât even seem like you cared. I was a crossword puzzle to you.â The white of his eyes warm with delicate pink, like heated metal.
Lazurâs heart beats fast and tight. âWhat makes you think you deserve my attention?â
âIf you were smart, youâd know thatâs gasoline youâre spilling.â
âCongrats. You put your self-esteem in the hands of a man who wakes up and stares at the ceiling for two hours.â
âYou sound like youâre going to shoot yourself, not me.â
Lazurâs arm drops to his side, gun flashing in the light. âItâs my birthday and the only person who showed up is the guy trying to reduce me to my individual atomic parts.â
Rubicon points at himself. âHaha. Thatâs me.â
Lazur stands up, silhouetted by the blast, gun still clenched in his fist. Metal warps, glass sings itself to death, the floor cracks under his boots, his stomach hurts, he sweats like summer. All he has to do is stand here a little longer, and then he wonât have to worry ever again.
Rubicon looks at him with concern. âHey.â
âWhat?â
âMake a wish.â
âA wish?â
âItâs your birthday. Make a wish.â
âI wish for the principle of combustion to be erased from the universe.â
Rubiconâs voice pitches up, pleased. âYou talk like Iâm some kind of, entity. Yes, I brought fire to earth, Iâm Bombetheusââ
âYouâre an amoral little boy.â
âWow. Okay.â Rubicon sucks quickly on his straw. âMake another wish. Be realistic.â
âI want you to stop using me as a scratching post for your massive ego.â
âI said realistic. Try again.â
âI want…” If he keeps talking heâs going to lose it. Part of him wants to pull the trigger and blow the contents of his own skull into the slow explosion. Deprive the brat of his toy. Hands cover his face, tired breathing into the palms, gun rubbing through the dark hair like a caress, like he could just turn it a little and trick himself intoâ
âHow about you hold onto that wish. Keep it in your back pocket.â
The shockwave curdles the edges of their hearing, the vibration accelerating. âRubicon.â
âYeah?â
âThat thing you said. Things getting out of control. Tell me.â
Rubicon smiles like heâs going to laugh it off but it just colors his voice brittle and unsteady. âWell, Laz. I donât wanna give you nightmares.â
Lazur recoils as if the boyâs whisper contains a respiratory virus. âYou need to stop it.â
Rubicon straightens up, and itâs clear it takes effort to keep his spine erect and his head high. âI hate when you use that tone of voice on me. You all think Iâm this crazy little cripple. A deep-fried delinquent. But one day. Your agency. My colleagues. The whole world. Theyâll see I was always the best. That there will never be anything like me again. Because Iâm going to break you. Cameras live. Timer running down. Worst six hours of your life. Theyâre going to see every single part of you day one unboxed. And then, uh. Then Iâll kill you!â
Lazurâs palm is so sweaty the gun feels like itâs sliding. He switches to his other hand. Rubicon watches the black hole of the barrel bob up and down, gaunt fingers gripping the sides of his wheelchair. âBut until then. Youâre staying alive.â
The barrel steadies, then drifts again as Lazur wipes sweat from his eyes. Rubicon inspects him seriously. âYou know what I like about you? You get scared, but you donât get surprised. Youâre so fucked up you accept every horrible new reality coming your way. Some people, I canât talk to them without every little fact of my existence being a cause of spectacular, conversation-killing pity.â
The gun rises and falls at the rate of shallow breathing, Lazurâs lips pressed tight, eyes fragile. âMmhm.â
âBye, Laz.â
âThanks for dinner.â
âMy treat, baby.â
Rubicon pulls on his joystick and the wheelchair rolls back through the visual distortion of the sharpening shockwave, particles of tephratic floor pinging off his wheels.
Lazur stands there with his hand wrapped around the gun like a claw, knowing he should end this with a single bullet. But he can’t decide which direction to pull the trigger.
Tktktktktk.
if they don;t fuck(ing explode) at the end of this I’m going to die, this is so tense
furiously drooling and clenching my hands
YEAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHGGHGHHH
fingers crossed!!
oh i am chewing on this like a dog…..the barely-contained mutual fixation…..a slow-mo explosion surging to consume them both…..mmmchwah. many compliments 2 the chef
thank you!! it is our pleasure to serve the finest in absolutely fucked meals!![](https://mario.wiki.gallery/images/0/06/SMRPG_Chef_Torte_Artwork.png)
UUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU
this is the best story of the decade
thank UUUUUUUUUUUUUUU
BEST STORY OF THE DICKADE
đ„đ„đ„đ„
âThereâs nothing to contradict what my mind tells me, even if itâs delusional.â
Ugh. I donât know if Iâve ever related to anything so much. And even though Rubicon says it I think itâs as true of Lazur.
I canât wait for the next one đŁđ„đâ€ïžâđ„
thank you <3 lazur is definitely trapped in his own brain hell for sure. new one just dropped!
dadson so good even the father figure has daddy issues
dads all the way down… <3