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With Great Power - Chapter 4

Title: With Great Power – Chapter 4

First Chapter | Previous Chapter | AO3

Fic summary: Thomas Sanders is just a regular social media personality. But when he gets bit by a spider during filming one of his YouTube videos, his whole life is about to turn upside down—whether he (or the aspects of his personality) want it to or not. Platonic LAMP/CALM + Character!Thomas. Spider-Man AU.

Chapter Word Count: 3377

Chapter warnings: mention of death, panic attack, lying, cursing, nausea, dizziness, risky and unsafe behavior (and encouragement of it)

A/N: Hi hello it’s been too long. But the Big Deal Real Life Time Sucking Thing has been turned in and hopefully I will have some more free time on my hands. ^u^ This chapter had some surprises for me as a writer, so I hope you find it enjoyable! Edited by yours truly, so all mistakes are mine.

Tags: @captain-loki-xavier, @human-dictionary @the-peculiar-bi-tch @mining-pup @band-be-boss-blog @asexual-trashbag @samathekittycat @why-should-i-tell-youu2 @theobsessor1 @always3charcoaltea @changeling-ash @logical-princey @crimsonshadow323 @flickering-raven @smokeyrutilequartz @dontbugmeimantisocial @soijusthavetoask @marvelfangeek09 @princelogical @creativenostalgiastuff @vigilantvirgil

…

Later that night, Thomas lays on his bed in the dark and stares up at the flat ceiling of his bedroom. Dodie’s newest EP floats through the air softly—he’d turned it on with the perhaps hypocritical hope that listening to his friend’s music would help him feel better about avoiding, well… his friends.

Once the news started showing stills of him in his scarf and sweatshirt—most of them mercifully blurry—with the anchors musing about who the stranger may be, Thomas had switched off the TV. He really wished they’d focus more on the kid, or even the guys that tried to take him. Anything but their apparent crusade to identify “Spider-Man”.

Turning off the TV, unfortunately, did very little to assuage the churning in his stomach. The events of the day flashed through his mind in broken fragments. The woman crying out for her kid, the wide and fearful eyes magnified by the glasses on the kid’s nose looking at him through the rear windshield, the snarl of contempt from the driver of the vehicle…

Thomas sighs and scrubs a hand across his eyes. The alarm clock on the nightstand politely informs him that it’s nearly 2 in the morning. He wonders bitterly if there is anything more frustrating than being utterly exhausted and still unable to sleep. His body feels like lead but his mind is still running through the events of the day like a highlight reel.

“This isn’t working,” he mutters aloud to himself. He takes a breath as if it will ease the churning in his stomach. Closing his eyes, he reaches through his mind with the probing thought.

Virge?

A sigh that isn’t exactly Thomas’s own echoes in his head. Yeah, Thomas, comes Virgil’s voice, sounding unsurprised. One sec.

The host opens his eyes again and blinks at the ceiling that he’d been stuck to just earlier this morning. Was that really just this morning? It felt like a lifetime ago. Dodie’s “Monster” gives way to “Arms Unfolding” but it’s little comfort alone in the dark. A moment later, Thomas hears the familiar whoosh and glances over to see Virgil standing beside his bed. His hood is pulled up over his purple hair and his hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his patched hoodie.

It’s hard to see his eyes in the dark under the hood and shaggy bangs, but from the slight duck to his head, Thomas knows he’s avoiding his gaze.

The internet personality sits up and rakes his fingers through his hair. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“I’m getting the feeling that you need to talk.”

Virgil lifts a noncommittal shoulder. “Logan already tried.” He nudges sock-clad feet against the Virgil 2.0 sweatshirt in a heap on the floor. Tension is etched carefully into every crevice of Virgil; evident, even in the dark.

Thomas looks at him patiently, shifting over slightly to make room. “Today was a lot.”

“Yeah, no shit,” Virgil snaps. His gaze flickers up to the vacated space on the bed. He sits gingerly on the very edge of it, as if he’s ready to bolt at a moment’s notice.

“So talk to me.”

Another long pause. It’s filled only with the soft, melodic sound of Dodie’s voice and the background whir of the apartment’s AC unit. The glow of the alarm clock’s red numbers does little in the way of light, and the darkness of the room so late at night seems to only amplify the silence between them. It stretches. For a moment, Thomas thinks Virgil isn’t going to say anything.

Then: “We could have actually, really died today.” Virgil’s words ring crystal clear and heavy in the dark. With it comes a tightening in Thomas’s chest. Virgil continues, the double vocalization leaking into his words. Amplifying them. “And don’t come at me with that ‘cognitive distortions’ crap. Not this time, Thomas. You know I’m right.”

Thomas can feel his heartbeat picking up in his chest and he takes in a deep breath through his nose. He holds it for a second, then releases it slowly through his mouth. He sees Virgil close his eyes as Thomas does it again. Virgil nods a silent thanks.

“But we didn’t,” Thomas replies softly as he feels the wave of panic brought on by that initial realization abates a little.

Virgil scoffs. “That’s kind of beside the point. We were in way over our heads.”

“But it turned out okay in the end.”

“Because we got lucky!” Virgil meets Thomas’s gaze for the first time tonight, his dark eyes cutting sharply through the space between them. “In fact, we got lucky a lot today. Lucky that we stuck to the car. Lucky that we caught the kid when he was about to faceplant into pavement going 45 miles per hour. Lucky that we got off the car when we needed to, that the driver didn’t have a gun or something, that nobody got a decent picture of you. The list goes on!”

Thomas is quiet for a moment, looking at Virgil carefully. At the tight clench to his jaw, the harsh glower from under his bangs, the aggression sketched into the edge of his stare. Thomas softens a little. “You’re right,” he says, and Virgil blinks at him, disarmed at the agreement. “We dove headfirst into a fight that wasn’t really ours in the first place.”

Virgil nods slowly. “Yeah…”

“So…Why?” Thomas tilts his head curiously as he asks.

Virgil arches an eyebrow at him. “What do you mean?”

The host sits up a little more, speaking as his thoughts come to him in a slow progression of understanding. “I mean… you’re my fight or flight, right? You said so yourself.”

Virgil rubs the back of his neck and averts his gaze again, favoring instead to focus on a picture of some of Thomas’s friends he’d had framed on his nightstand. “Right. I… I guess.”

Thomas is watching him closely as the thoughts begin to click into place. “If the fight wasn’t ours in the first place, if we were in way over our head, if the odds were most likely against us… why did you choose fight, Virgil?”

Virgil looks startled for a moment. “I…” the thought is left unfinished.

He huffs a breath and shoves a hand back through his hair. It knocks the hood off his head. Virgil doesn’t seem to notice or has decided he doesn’t care. Thomas doesn’t press him any further. Even in the dark, he can see the flicker of his eyes as he thinks back to that split-second decision.

“Because they were in danger,” Virgil says quietly. Simply. His eyes are abruptly wide. Afraid. “I didn’t think. They were danger, and I just… threw us headfirst into a fight we could have lost.” Thomas feels his chest seize suddenly, alarm surging up his throat as Virgil’s voice takes on a sudden and intense distortion. “You must hate me.”

“Whoa, whoa. No.” His breathing is getting faster. Thomas’s hands fist around the blanket across his lap as if it will ground him. “Virgil, you gotta—” His throat closes up with panic.

“I know! I know. I’m sorry, I—in for four seconds, Thomas.”

Thomas screws his eyes shut and focuses on his breathing. In through the nose for four seconds, hold for seven seconds, out through the mouth for eight. Repeat. Repeat again. Repeat a fourth time. He can hear Virgil breathing slowly with him.

“I don’t hate you,” Thomas says after a few minutes, when he’s felt his heart slowing back down and his throat doesn’t feel as tight. “I’m… actually really proud of you.”

Virgil’s eyes flit back up to Thomas’s. “Yeah?” The distortion is gone, but Virgil sounds smaller somehow.

Thomas smiles faintly. “Yeah. I mean… us running towards danger to help someone else instead of away from it? I’ve always wanted to think that I’d be that kind of person.” He nudges Virgil’s shoulder with his foot. “Now I know I am.”

The corner of Virgil’s mouth quirks for the briefest moment, then it disappears. He looks away. “I’m supposed to protect you, Thomas,” he says. “Running you straight into a fight isn’t exactly keeping you from harm. It’s pretty much exactly the opposite of that.”

“I don’t know about that,” Thomas says gently, thinking back through moments of the fight in the parking lot. His muscles ache slightly from the memory, but something more important sticks out. “I seem to remember a voice sounding an awful lot like yours telling me to duck before I would’ve taken a fist to the face.”

Virgil snorts. “Yeah.” He rubs the back of his neck and glances at Thomas. He makes a face. “Honestly that was a little weird, right?”

“Weird?”

“Yeah. I mean… I don’t even know what made me yell that at you. I just had this sudden, intense feeling that you needed to duck. I didn’t know why.” He shakes his head and shrugs. “It was weird. But I’m kinda glad for it. A bloody nose isn’t exactly a becoming look on you.”

“Huh.” Thomas turns Virgil’s words over in his head for a moment. “Do you think it’s related to all the other, um… weird stuff?”

Virgil looks at him. “I don’t know. It might be?” He sighs. “Though ‘all the other weird stuff’ also hasn’t been helping with the whole…” He waves a hand vaguely.

Thomas huffs a suddenly exhausted laugh, not needing any further explanation from his Anxious Side. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I get what you mean. We don’t know what’s happened to me, or… even what I’m able to do. And that’s…”

“Unsettling,” Virgil finishes for him. Thomas nods.

Distantly, the internet personality hears a car roll by on wet pavement down the street outside of his apartment. His eyes drift around the room, lingering on the corner of his room by the closet. The same place he’d managed to get himself stuck to the ceiling. Maybe figuring some way to have better control—to not stick to walls and ceilings unless he wanted to, like when he stuck to the car—and exploring these new… abilities (powers? Thomas doesn’t know what to call them) would help.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Thomas says carefully, “we can go… experiment a little. In a controlled environment.”

Virgil’s lips quirk up into a smile. “You sound like Logan.”

Thomas laughs and runs a hand down his face. “Yeah. It’s probably his idea. But what do you think?”

Virgil nods once. “I think it’s a good one.”

“Good.” He pauses as Virgil pushes up from his position on the bed. “Good night, Virgil.”

The Anxious Side gives him a small two-fingered salute as he sinks out. “G’night, Thomas.”

…

Thomas hits the cement floor hard and grimaces at the jarring impact, his shoulder taking the brunt of it. He groans and coughs a little before rolling to his feet. He pushes sweaty bangs out of his eyes and squints up at the window at the very top of the warehouse wall. Dusty, late afternoon sunlight filters through the small window and the piles of shipping containers cast long, dark shadows in the dimly lit building.

Thomas had found the warehouse on the outskirts of Gainesville the morning after his talk with Virgil, and he’d been coming here every day for almost a week. Two days ago, he’d tweeted out that he was feeling under the weather—and texted Joan and Camden about it—and tried to ignore just how much his stomach twisted uncomfortably with the knowledge that he was now lying to his fanbase as much as he was lying to his friends.

He’d been trying not to think about it.

“On a scale from 1 to 10,” Logan’s measured voice cuts into his thoughts, “how would you rate the effect of that impact on your body’s physical capabilities?”

“All right, Baymax,” Roman quips from where he’s leaned against a shipping container. “You could just ask him if he’s hurt, like a normal person.”

Thomas rolls his shoulder a couple of times, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “About the same as every other time I’ve crash-landed this week,” he says lightly. “So a little winded, but nothing that bad.”

Logan quirks an eyebrow from where he stands a few feet away, then jots something down on a clipboard. “Fascinating.”

Virgil sits perched on the top of an unmarked container, chewing on his thumbnail. “We definitely should have broken something that time.”

Patton—who is sitting beside him, his feet kicking back and forth slightly against the container—looks at Thomas worriedly. “You okay, kiddo? That one looked like it hurt.”

Thomas frowns, then rolls his shoulder slowly one more time. Just to be sure. “Yeah, actually.”

“Well,” Logan says, studying the clipboard in his hands. “That just about confirms it. We can include a notable increase in your physical durability on our list of physiological changes your body has undergone as a result of recent catalytic events.”

“Thomas, you’re virtually indestructible.”

“No,” Logan corrects Roman hastily, waving a pen in the Creative Side’s direction. “That would be hyperbole. However, you have certainly demonstrated an unnatural ability to withstand impact that would, under normal circumstances, severely injure any other human.”

Thomas grabs his water bottle from where he’d set it down by Roman’s feet. He nods his understanding, glancing around the warehouse. Truthfully, it was pretty much the perfect place for what he was doing. As far as Thomas could tell, the warehouse was mostly abandoned. Shipping containers were empty, but they provided a number of walls of various heights for Thomas to use for practice. And, perhaps most importantly, there wasn’t a soul around except for himself.

“It’s probably a good thing,” Virgil quips in reference to Logan’s comment, “given how many times you’ve faceplanted into concrete this week.” He holds his hands up in mock surrender at the disapproving look Patton throws at him.

Thomas acknowledges the comment with a brief glance before he surveys the warehouse again. They’d realized his strength level had markedly increased on day 1. Before things had started to change, Thomas couldn’t even do a pull up. Now? Now he could pull himself up onto a ledge with one arm. In fact, he lifted one of the warehouse boxes—weighing several tons, by Logan’s best estimate—like it was a slightly awkward desk.

“Thomas,” Logan interrupts, “what would you say is your fatigue level?”

Stamina was another thing that Logan had been keeping a close eye on. Usually, Thomas could manage a 2 mile run before he’d start to feel the fatigue. But he’d been working out—experimenting? Training? Honestly he didn’t know what to call it—for nearly eight hours each day. And sure, he’d be tired at the end, but there was still a marked difference in Thomas’s stamina level.

“I’m good,” Thomas tells him honestly. “Starting to feel it a bit, but I want to keep going.”

The one thing that continued to be a problem for him, really, was this whole “sticking/not sticking” thing. He was getting better as the days passed—practice makes perfect, as Patton kept telling him—but it wasn’t coming as naturally as the stamina or the strength. He kept falling or slipping. Again and again and again.

Logan hums in thought and writes down something else. “As you wish.”

Thomas’s gaze zeroes in on a stack of shipping containers a few yards away. He bounces on his feet a few times, stretching his neck. He flexes his fingers. His shoulders tense. He breathes in. Out.

He takes off sprinting.

Thomas kicks off the ground as he rushes up to the tower of containers, his hands finding unnatural purchase against their smooth walls. He kicks his feet up against it, grinning a bit to himself as they stick. He huffs a breath.

He climbs quickly as if it’s a ladder—hand, foot, hand, foot—and reaches up for the edge of the top container. He glances down and immediately wishes he hadn’t. At the same time that he realizes just how high up he really is, Thomas feels his feet slip. His hands let go. The ground rushes up to meet him very suddenly.

The wind leaves Thomas’s lungs. He wheezes, coughing in a desperate attempt to get air back. He lays there for a moment, waiting for the world around him to stop spinning. The lighting fixtures set up into the scaffolding of the warehouse ceiling turn briefly into double and triple images. Thomas squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for the high-pitched ringing in his ears to abate.

When he opens his eyes again after a long moment, he sees Roman standing above him. The Creative Side offers a hand, and Thomas accepts it as Roman helps him up to his feet.

“What happened?” Roman asks, walking back with him. “You were almost there.”

Thomas shakes his head without answering. He doesn’t know.

Wordlessly, Thomas turns on his heels once they get back to the starting point and faces the tower of shipping containers again. He breathes. He tenses. His weight shifts forward to the balls of his feet. He takes off running again.

Thomas scales the side of it just like he had before, getting about three quarters of the way up before his hands slip, his feet suddenly letting go. He plummets to the floor again.

“Thomas,” Logan says quietly when the host manages to push back up to his feet and stalk back towards the starting point again.

“He has to do this, Logan,” Roman says with a certain edge to his voice. “It’s not like it’s that hard!”

“Maybe he can’t,” Virgil quips.

“He has to.” Roman’s voice is a little higher than Thomas is used to hearing it. Something about it only spurs him on.

“Roman—” Patton tries, but Thomas doesn’t hear what his Morality is saying as he takes off at a dead run for the stack of shipping containers again.

This time, he feels his fingertips brush the very edge of the top container. Then he slips.

Thomas yelps in surprise, reaching blindly. One hand makes contact with the side of the containers as he slides down, and he feels a sharp pull in his shoulder as the hand sticks, abruptly stopping his fall. He grits his teeth, reaching his other hand up. The first hand lets go before he’s ready, and Thomas falls clumsily the rest of the way.

He lands awkwardly on his feet, the harsh impact bringing him to his knees. It sends a jolt of pain shooting up his body. Thomas falls forward onto his hands and knees, his eyes stinging. He takes a second to catch his breath.

“I think that’s enough for now,” Patton says from a distance, uncharacteristically firm. Thomas can hear a set of footsteps behind him, getting closer.

“Y-Yeah,” comes Roman’s voice, distant. It sounds tight and pained. “Yeah, okay. I’m gonna—” A grunt. “I’m gonna go lay down.”

The footsteps are right behind him now. Thomas hears Logan’s voice speak up from behind him, unusually gentle for the Logical Side. “Breathe, Thomas.”

Perhaps ironically, Thomas doesn’t have the breath to respond. He nods, hating the way his arms feel suddenly like jelly. His exhale is shaky. He bows his head and tries to focus on catching his breath. The concrete is cold and grounding, and Thomas leans so that his forearms and forehead are against the floor. It helps with the lingering dizziness.

After a moment, Thomas pushes himself up so that he’s just kneeling on the floor. Logan is standing in front of him now. The clipboard is gone. The internet personality glances around the warehouse and notices that Roman is nowhere to be seen. Patton stands a few steps behind Thomas, his eyes bright and worried. Virgil stands a few feet back. There’s something unreadable about his expression.

“Are you… all right?” Logan asks.

Thomas takes a deep, slow breath. It doesn’t shake as much. “Yeah,” he says unconvincingly. He pushes himself to his feet.

“It’ll come, kiddo,” Patton says as Thomas brushes past him.

Thomas doesn’t answer as he walks out of the warehouse.

#sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #platonic lamp/calm #sanders sides spiderman au #spider-man au #with great power fic #tw cursing #tw death mention #tw risky behavior #tw lying #tw panic attack #character!thomas #hhhhh i hope you enjoy this chapter #<3

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recentnews18-blog · 6 years

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New Post has been published on https://shovelnews.com/the-love-song-of-dril-and-the-boys/

The Love Song Of Dril And The Boys

I have not read dril’s book. I cannot read dril’s book.

Dril Official “Mr. Ten Years” Anniversary Collection compiles 1,500 of the pseudonymous Twitter user’s greatest tweets, and it is simply too funny for me to read for more than a page or two at a time without laughing so hard, I feel physically ill. Ask my family if you don’t believe me. Ask the patrons of the West Babylon Public Library, who have been shooting me dirty looks since I began writing this essay. Every time I crack the book open, I’m seconds away from hitting something like this …

“hello 911 I need a moat dug around my house immediately” “sir this line is for emergencies only” “Thuis is an emergency moat”

— wint (@dril) May 18, 2014

… or this …

koko the talking ape.. has been living high on the hog, wasting our tax dollars on high capacity diapers. No more. i will suplex that beast,

— wint (@dril) September 7, 2014

… or this …

where do girls live

— wint (@dril) October 20, 2010

… and that’s it. Show’s over. “Goodnight Irene,” as Gorilla Monsoon would say. (“I will suplex that beast.”)

Dril’s blend of fist-on-the-table bluster, abject confusion and burned-toast syntax — the style of humor he pioneered, which became the lingua franca of Funny/Weird Twitter in toto — has my number. Like Monty Python’s run-on sketches, non sequiturs and Terry Gilliam animation; like the endless awkward pauses, omnipresent electrical humming and recycled animation of “Space Ghost Coast to Coast”; like Tim and Eric’s garish colors, glitchy video and non-actor stars, dril’s tweets are a new way to be funny, with a rhythm and vocabulary all their own. I love it.

But dril? Dril loves the boys.

A recurring collective character in dril’s oeuvre, the boys occupy a unique place in his taxonomy, which, thanks to the book’s arrangement of tweets by topic, is easier than ever to get the hang of. For example, girls are mysterious sources of intermingled awe and terror, like the monoliths in “2001.”

ah, So u persecute Jared Fogle just because he has different beliefs? Do Tell. (girls get mad at me) Sorry. Im sorry. Im trying to remove it

— wint (@dril) November 1, 2015

Brands are icons of integrity, as admirable as they are untouchable.

just deleted 23,000 tweets at the request of Sbarro. feeling Purified

— wint (@dril) July 5, 2015

The trolls are contemptible pests, an implacable obstacle.

will no longer be livestreaming foreskin restoration process; the trolls who attempted to summon [インプ] (Imps) into the chatroom are to blame

— wint (@dril) February 3, 2012

And then there’s rival Twitter user @DigimonOtis, a class by himself: He is nemesis, the anti-dril.

(reading my latest death threat ) “from the desk of DigimonOtis…” this is bullshit. digimonotis has never owned a desk

— wint (@dril) November 6, 2014

But the boys are on dril’s level. The boys welcome dril with open arms. They share his hopes and fears, his loves and hates. He’s one of the boys.

Just met w/ Boys Lunch Club. Seems to me, That we are very pissed off that teen girls would rather kiss, “Soldier Boy,” than Actual Soldiers

— wint (@dril) May 16, 2016

pleased to report my custom beer tap that makes a dramatic diarrhea noise while filling the glass is a hit with the boys at the fondue club

— wint (@dril) October 16, 2014

best 90s memory is gathering around the old oak tree with the boys and passing around trading cards featuring all of our dads #DamnGood90s

— wint (@dril) April 30, 2013

Crucial to the boys’ appeal is their exclusivity. Like any clique, they’ve invested their aesthetic preferences with moral weight, and those who violate them do so at their peril.

darknet 2002: pics of dead guys in bath tubs, warez darknet 2017: discussions amongst the boys as to which of our acquaintances aren t funny

— wint (@dril) August 11, 2017

me & the booys are riffing on 78 hours of stolen walgreens security cam footage. this guy on here just bought a toilet brush. bitch!! bitch!

— wint (@dril) December 8, 2014

me and the boys have decided that the least gay way of wiping your ass is to dump a quarter bottle of Palmolive Spring Sensations back there

— wint (@dril) September 17, 2016

Dril may be a member in good standing, but membership brings responsibilities as well as privileges.

the boys held an intervention about me “Going hollywood” because i;ve been buying plastic toothpicks now

— wint (@dril) June 1, 2018

THE BOYS: were watching the mr bean episode where you can see his ass. get over here ME: cant. wifes making me watch mr beans holiday (2007)

— wint (@dril) June 14, 2017

If the boys function as dril’s superego, instilling and policing values, they are also his id — an embodiment of his most voracious physical drives.

pussy log 12.29.11: justin unscrewed the knob from the door to the ladies’ room and now the club boys all take turns cradling it

— wint (@dril) December 30, 2011

“Ah!! Lunchtime, Boys!” i snort several lines of Hamburger Helper, tilt my head back and shake with unbearable agony as my head turns purple

— wint (@dril) May 15, 2013

The comedy and tragedy of dril is that he is a man without ego, the mediating force that balances the needs of id and superego. He is perpetually out of balance, careening from excess to shame. He requires the intervention of the boys, the example they set, just to function.

This is why the saga of dril and the boys is a love story — conditional and occasionally unrequited though that love may be. It is poignant because it is impossible to imagine dril living without them any more than Juliet could live without Romeo.

When the lovers are in harmony — when the needs of id, ego and superego are aligned at last — the result is a thing of beauty.

going ape shit at the gym. rotating in full 360 degrees with the boys, flawlessly synchronized

— wint (@dril) November 28, 2017

The boys can be peers, contributing to the good posts for which dril is best known at a level beyond dril’s own imagining.

cant wiat to see what devilish thanksgiving scenarios me and the boys of twitter can conjure up. “The turkey was taken by spiders? ? Whua??”

— wint (@dril) November 24, 2014

Together they can be silent guardians, watchful protectors, dark knights, defending boys both within and outside the circle from the depredations of rival groups.

me & the boys will be holding hands., forming a Covenant Ring, to protest girls who only want to fuck the main pirate from the pirate movies

— wint (@dril) June 4, 2017

the epic shit of 2017; is the boys getting TheSegaPimp fired from his job at The Red Cross for not wishing me a “Happy Halloween”

— wint (@dril) January 2, 2018

the boys are enjoying their fave jukebox when ths sarge steps in SARGE: TURN OFF THE DAMN JUKE BOX! ITS WAR ME: Fuck u sarge. The armys crap

— wint (@dril) July 7, 2015

Not every tweet about the boys made it into the book. This is fitting, as when they’re operating at full force, nothing can contain them.

thje opening riff of “Life In The Fast Lane” repeats over and over forever while me and the boys shoot at a septic tank with airsoft rifles

— wint (@dril) August 1, 2014

me N’ the boys eating messy sandiwches, sneaking around with big binoculars looking for girls & letting every one know who runs this TJ maxx

— wint (@dril) July 21, 2016

So we come to the crux of the matter. Dril and the boys are the great love story of our time because their insecurities, their mania, are our time’s prime motivators.

Dril and the boys wallow in the same miasma from which all our era’s reactionary movements have emerged — the MAGAs and Pepes, MRAs and incels, GamerGaters and ComicsGaters, Sad Puppies and Proud Boys and all the other doofuses with unwittingly infantilizing sobriquets.

With “the boys,” the humorist behind dril has tapped into the overall vibe in this country that there exists, somewhere out there ― perhaps in a TJ Maxx ― a lost masculine ideal. No one agrees on what it is, least of all dril, whose psyche is as piecemeal as his punctuation. It could be yelling at NFL protesters to stand for the national anthem or screaming at Disney for committing white genocide in the “Star Wars” films. It could be having sex all the time or having no sex at all. It could be respecting the majesty of the law or flouting it or both, depending on whom the law is meant to penalize. It’s the nightmare superego-id hybrid, 10 pounds of Blue Lives Matter shit in a five-pound “Live free or die” bag.

When men fail to live up to the puritanical amorality of the boys, they’re less than men, which is to say — as women have a lifetime to learn — they’re less than human. Such men earn sexualized insults like “betas” and “cucks.” They’re reduced to contemptuous acronyms like “SJWs” and “NPCs.” They make the soy face. They listen to dad rock. This blend of macho aggression and childlike vulnerability cannot be resolved in the real world, where it results in a racist, revanchist, minority party controlling all branches of government and installing sexual predators in every available position of power yet still acting like the David to the Goliath of Me Too, female gamers and the theoretical casting of Idris Elba as James Bond.

me and the boys watching james bond morph into a black guy before our very eyes , and braying at the movie screen like distressed cattle

— wint (@dril) September 4, 2018

Dril and the boys reside in this all-American astral plane where the Large Son–Libtard civil war rages, where misandry is real and must be guarded against with magic spells. We recognize our own reality in their incoherent but nevertheless militant search for reasons to hoot and holler. As such, their romance presents us with an opportunity to convert the problematic into the pleasurable, just as surely as antihero dramas or even halfway decent kink.

In the world of dril and the boys, all the pride and greed and wrath and lust and envy and sloth and gluttony of the movements that have fouled the entire adult lives of multiple generations of Americans can be boiled down to a gaggle of morons screaming about toilets. It’s a beautiful fantasy, and like all fantasies, it’s as romantic as it is remote.

Sean T. Collins has written for The New York Times, Rolling Stone, Pitchfork, Esquire and Vulture. He and his partner, the cartoonist Julia Gfrörer, are the co-editors of the art and comics anthology Mirror Mirror II. They live with their children on Long Island in New York.

Source: https://www.huffingtonpost.com/entry/dril-and-the-boys-twitter_us_5bb66529e4b028e1fe3bfd71

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