#you can see the shape of his eyeballs through the fucking fabric he's dragging it over his EYEBALLS that would probably hurt?????

[zosonils]

phineas wore exclusively button up shirts and varieties thereof until he was about five or six because regular tshirts do not fit over his head easily at all and until he made the conscious decision to try wearing them he couldn’t get one on without hurting himself and/or crying

#welcome back to headcanons with absolutely no context i'm thinking about phin's big ol dorito skull again #and also i went through the sequence in the movie where he puts his shirt on frame by frame mostly to laugh at the silly in betweens #but it got me thinking that like. that can't be comfortable to do. his entire face bends to get it on #you can see the shape of his eyeballs through the fucking fabric he's dragging it over his EYEBALLS that would probably hurt????? #and like have you ever tried to get a young autistic kid to wear something uncomfortable they will fight you tooth and nail to not wear it #if linda even entertained the notion of getting a tshirt onto baby phineas for a moment she'd have rightfully given up almost instantly

[bloodpenned]

plz plz plz can you write m!whitney skullfucking pc

wordcount: 2.5k (can’t believe this is the first time i write an actual fic on here.) cw: noncon, detailed ero guro / gore porn, eye trauma, drugging, knives, vomit mention, needle mention, degradation, victim blaming.

or: whitney fucks your eye socket and prepares you for the act. don’t read this to upset or trigger yourself, please.

Since all of your holes have been used by others, Whitney makes one for himself.

“Look at you- You can barely keep your fucking head up, slut.”

The voice drifts to you from far away, a figure leaning over the ice you’re trapped under. Where am I?, you ask, but all your vocal cords produce is a gurgle. Your limbs are made of cement and frozen in place. Letting yourself be dragged back into the depths of unconsciousness is much easier than staying afloat. Through trembling eyelids, you barely make out the shape of the person in front of you. Their legs, to be precise. Pain shoots through your scalp and you jolt, finally present enough for the ties around your wrists and ankles to register in your mind, the cold wall you’re leaning against. That it’s Whitney, because who fucking else would it be, yanking you up by your hair. Your tongue still refuses to move. 

“Follow.” His voice feigns disinterest. Yet he keeps shuffling, leaning his weight more on one leg, then the other again. He holds his hand in front of your face, moving it from side to side. Your head is so fuzzy you see no reason to disobey. By the time you’ve caught up with him to the right, he’s already back the other way. Your eyelids droop. He laughs. “God, you’re out of it. Poor you, did I gave you a little too much? You can’t say I’ve ever underestimated you.”

As soon as his grip loosens, your head drops and black dots litter your vision. Drool spills from your mouth. Something bad is about to happen, there’s no other explanation for this. His hands will end up all over your body again. But there’s no chatter of his friends, no flashes of cameras, so different from the usual that you don’t know what to expect. The world fades out, before flickering back in the middle of a sentence.

“...pay me back. Got that? Good.” The hand is back in your hair, keeping you steady. He’s digging around in his pocket. “If you weren’t such a whore, I wouldn’t have to do this. Did you think I wouldn’t see those pictures? Wouldn’t know when my slut’s gagging around someone else? I promised I would beat some sense into you if you didn’t listen, so here we are.”

Whitney’s found what he had been looking for. There’s something in his hand, moving toward your face too quickly to make out. Everything’s so blurry that even while squinting, you can’t immediately tell what it is. You nearly go crosseyed trying to figure it out. A handle clenched in his fist, gray, reflecting surface, ending in a sharp point-

A knife.

“You’re a fucking cumbrain already, but I’ll give you one too.”

You watch the situation unfold from the back of your skull. This is happening to someone else, anyone except you. It’s a movie, and a bad one at that. You can’t pinch your arm to wake yourself up. Whitney had hurt you before, sure, with his bare hands. Never like this. He’s always made fun of Kylar for having to resort to knives, why would he use one now? Is it just a threat? It has to be. Then again, you’re so disoriented you don’t stand a sliver of a chance against him. Your heart hammers against your ribcage, so loud it makes your head throb. The furthest your abilities go is to shake your head and force a whimper from your throat, rubbing your wrists raw on the zip tie. Whitney presses cold steel against your cheek. You try to spit at him, but you can’t put any force behind it. It dribbles down your chin in a slow stream. 

Whitney barks out a laugh. “What the fuck are you, a dog?” The knife digs into your skin, a gentle push away from slicing you open. “Don’t get to get too excited yet, we haven’t even started, slut.” He slides the blade up to your bottom eyelid, leaving a shallow cut. (Your brain is fuzzy. Your cheeks are warm, burning- Are you blushing? Is the wetness rolling down your face a tear?) Your fingers twitch, your teeth grind together, every muscle pulled tight like a bowstring. 

His breathing is laboured, eyes boring into yours, expression blank for a mere moment. Whitney, as you know him from school, is all but empty. He’s of scoffing and snarling, of laughter and grins- This is nothing you recognize. Your gut twists. Every instinct in your body is screeching at the top of its lungs for you to run. At the same time, another part tells you to stay as still as possible, as if you will simply fade out of existence if you don’t move. (But it’s okay, because none of this is real, and you’re at the orphanage in bed curled up under the covers, and you’ll wake up late and rush to get your uniform to not miss the bus and you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine, you’ll be fine-) Whitney’s tongue darts out to trace his upper lip, his fingers turning white around the handle. 

The next, there is a blow of air against your eye before pure, indescribable agony accompanied by a wet squelch. You’re dying, you’re dying, you’re dying, it’s over- Half of your face has been blown off, your brain is exposed for all to see and poke and prod, your lungs collapse with every breath, your throat spasms around vomit. What’s left of your right side of vision is a red and black pulsating blur. The screams, the sole outburst you’re capable of, are mere groans in the back of your throat. Your mouth opens and closes like a fish on land. Blood, sweat, tears, pus, slime- You wouldn’t know. Something oozes down your face, thick mucus, making a mess on your lap. You’re warm, you’re cold, sweat thick underneath your clothes. Everything is wet. Everything is hot.

A hand is on your head, stroking. The sensation dissapears into and becomes one with the pain, the thing that melts everything else away. “There you go, you’re being so good! But I’m not done yet.” He speaks to you in the tone reserved purely for dogs. From the corner of your good eye, you can see him reaching his fist back and pounds it against the handle, your entire world dissolving into nothing as it hits.

When you wake up, you do so to a palpitating heart that’s skipping beats left and right, to a convulsing body, to spit frothing at your mouth and a needle in your leg. The gag in your mouth rubs against your tongue and tastes of sweat. Whitney has discorded the knife, left it at your feet. Your eyeball looks like scrambled egg white on one end, a sloppy mess, and you gag. At one point or another, you will have to come to term with the fact that you’re never going to see from it again.

“Can’t have you leaving before the party’s started.” Your head whips around, the sensation of something sloshing inside your eye socket immediately making you regret it. Wind blows straight into the wound and causes you to ear up. He’s on your right. Somewhere. What you assume to be the syringe falls to the ground with a clatter. There’s no way he isn’t standing there, in the void he created, on purpose. You would’ve preferred to be really fucking dead right now. Let him rape your corpse, at least you wouldn’t have to be there to notice it. Whatever he injected you with, it’s all so much sharper now. The lights are brighter, every little step he takes ringing in your ears, your right eye (or the slurry that’s left of it) aflame. You rock back and forth to shuffle further away from him, but you’re already backed against a wall and the movement makes the blood in your skull slosh alongside it.

“Gotta check if you’re wet enough for me. Thank me later, slut.” Whitney pulls on your eyelashes, the tip of his finger teasing the hole. Once in a while, it dips into the wound, your nerves tingling in anticipation at the near touch. Breath hitching every time, your brain can’t comprehend what’s exactly happening to you. Your heart pounds in your ears, your limbs keep twitching against your will. Now that you can, you want to struggle, but you’re so scared of that pain, terrified that he could choose to take the other one as well.

All you want is for this to be over. You just want to be home. As flawed of a home it is, it’s still the one place you can think to return to. (Robin will be there, waiting for you. They always have. Could you still keep up with them during games, now that you’re like this? Bailey’s presence, suffocating as it is, at least keeps you safe from intruders. How pissed off are they going to be, now that you're a damaged ware?)

“Can’t you sit still for one fucking second? You wanna know what it feels like when I slip so badly?” Your head jerks to the side against your will, foot hitting his ankle. “I guess you do, huh? But, fuck- You keep writhing around, maybe I should give the needy whore what they want. You’re soaked, that’s for sure.”

Whitney pulls away, his fingers coated a pale red. Using your hair as a rag, he smears the fluids in it, tugging on it once for good measure. He takes a step back, descends back outside your field of vision. There’s the rustling of fabric, unbuckling of a belt, a zipper being undone. You begin to plead through your gag, repeating muffled, incomprehensible words, because please, anything but this, not right now, not ever, hasn’t he done enough, isn’t he satisfied, he’s already ruined you enough, please, just please-

“It’s cute you think you have a choice.”

There’d been a nagging suspicion in the back of your head that it would come down to this. Every meeting with Whitney would end up leading down the same path, but this time... You choke on your breaths, chest heaving with sobs. With every shock of your shoulders, more heat leaks out of your eyes, your entire face turning into one throbbing mess. You squeeze your eyes shut. (There’s no way you can move the right eyelid, the knife has torn straight through it. All it is now is limp meat, hanging on by a thread.) His dick presses against your cheek. Fucking hell, why does he have to be so big too? There’s ringing in your ears as he leaves a trail of precum, mingling with the mess already there. His scent overpowered by the metallic smell of blood. Why can’t you just pass out again? But you’re still twitching, thoughts racing faster than you can keep track of.

“You’ve been asking for this, don’t try to deny it. I’m not stupid. Well, you’ve got my attention now. You better be grateful.” He misses the first time, the head of his dick rubbing against your eyebrow. Whitney curses underneath his breath. Trembling fingers tug your eyelids as far apart as possible and you hate it, you hate this so fucking much, you want someone to come by here to save you, you want to sink through the floor, you want to die.

He sucks in a breath through grit teeth, and hits his mark. You’re not sure how much he crammed inside your skull, but all of it was too much, too cruel. The screaming is clear through your bounds, raking your throat raw. Whichever way you move, his cock stays lodged in between the bone. The muscles snap and tear, the bones crack, the flesh, like the tight fit that it is, clings around his dick, and he groans as he pushes himself further inside. An impossible amount of more fat and mucus and slime comes free, clogging your nose. The back of your head slams against the wall with every movement, but it doesn’t hurt, doesn’t compare. 

There’s nothing else. There can be nothing else. Your mind is full and empty at the same time. He’s all you can think about, he’s fucking the memory of him into your brain, leaving his permanent mark. Is this what he wanted? You’re being dissected, pulled apart, the creases of your brain violated. He’s saying things, (tight, mess, slut, enjoying, loud.), but he’s pulling out and the scrape of the warm flesh makes the scenery blur. Your throat feels like it was pulled across sandpaper.

The pressure dissipates and you cry in pure relief. But, a moment later, he’s back in and down a slightly different path at a slightly different angle and there’s more snapping, more gushes of fluid. The only thing that will ever fit there again will be him. The perfect little cocksleeve. He’s pushing up against something and you don’t know what, but every time he twitches and brushes against it, your entire vision blacks out. Where the pain reached a crescendo before, it’s turned around to be almost numbing now. Are your nerves torn up? Are you dying?

“Open your mouth. Wait, fuck-” He’s breathless, stuttering over his words. His dick twitches and scrapes against bone. Trembling fingers remove the gag from your mouth. If this were literally any other situation, you might have been almost proud to have turned him into such a wreck. “Stick your tongue out and it’ll be over. Done.”

You latch onto those words like a lifeline. No matter how it ends, you just want it to be over. Without much more than a second of delay you do as he asks, your good eye rolling up to try and look at him. Considering how full your head is, you hardly notice the strings of cum being added to the pool, until some of it leaks through your nose and onto your tongue. He puts one hand on your head, shaking it until more follows. (Though his cum isn’t the only thing there.)

Strings of blood and slime stick to his dick like drool as he pulls out. You hate him. You hate yourself. You hate this fucking town, and you hate every piece of shit in it. Your brain is a cacophony of screaming, of visions of growing fangs and claws and tearing him to shreds, of burning this whole town down. All you do is stare up without really looking, eyes glazed over. You’re tired, so unbelievably tired. All you want to do is rest, even if it’s while bleeding out in some shitty alleyway. His voice drifts to you from far away, smile clear in his tone.

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

An eye for an eye has never sounded so appealing before.

#degrees of lewdity #whitney the bully #i knoooow he wouldnt do this but whatever i like writing it and also i can do whatever i want #it was just a top tier request i cant help myself #seriously dont read to freak yourself out ! #k.gore #k.degradation #k.drugs #k.knife

[slasherholic]

The Predicament | Michael Myers x Female Reader (NSFW)

You’re stuck. Stuck in a shelf, and, yes, it is ridiculous, and embarrassing, and entirely your fault.

You grunt as you wiggle your hips, struggling to lift the weight off your back for the umpeenth time. Something— a book, probably— is keeping the wood from collapsing on you entirely. There is room enough for you to breathe, and room to squirm a bit, but other than that, you’re pinned. Half-in, half-out of a bookcase. What a wonderful way to spend your evening.

You had been reaching for a book— had nearly gotten your hold on the damn thing, too— when it toppled from the shelf with a papery ruffle, becoming wedged between the bookcase and the wall, completely out of reach.

When the case proved too heavy to move, you opted instead to dive head-first through the shelves like a fearless spelunker. Just as your fingers closed around the book, the bookcase gave a shrill creak, and the shelf above you came sliding down. The rest was history.

You give up your struggling in favor of observing the shadows on the walls, watching as they warp and stretch with the setting of the sun. It isn’t long before you begin to feel invisible eyes on you, as if some silent observer is studying your predicament from afar. The hair on the back of your neck stands on end. Anyone else might have chalked such feelings up to simple paranoia; but, not you. You know better.

A tense, silent minute passes, until finally, you notice it— the thing that causes your breath to catch in your throat.

One shadow is out of place. It is an imposing shadow, completely unmoving, as if its caster is standing perfectly, eerily still. You give an exasperated huff.

“Michael,” You whine, your words muffled by the bookcase, “Will you please stop stalking me and come lift this thing?”

For a vexing moment, the shadow on the wall remains stubbornly motionless. You suck in your breath as you nervously eyeball the dark shape— is he seriously just going to leave you stuck like this? Are you even surprised? You really wouldn’t put it past Michael to ignore your helpless state, at least until he gets horny, or until your fridge runs out of food, or until—

Your racing thoughts are silenced by the approach of heavy footsteps. You blow out a puff of air, muttering a silent “thank you” under your breath.

“Just lift the shelf,” You suggest to the unseen figure. “-and I can probably wiggle free from there.”

Michael’s boots squeak to a stop against the tile. Those familiar, husky inhales are drawn from somewhere above you, and you can feel the heat and closeness of his body. You frown. Actually, his body is too close— something hard is pressing against your thighs— is that what you think it is?

You nearly squeal as Michael’s large, hot hand settles across your hip.

“Hey!” You cry out in protest, squirming and thrashing against your confinement. “Michael! Not like this, please, just get me out!”

Your begging is lost on Michael. A second hand joins the first to grope at your ass, squeezing and cuping hungry handfuls. You give a muffled squeak from inside the bookcase. What a horrid day to wear tights. The skin-tight fabric hugs your curves, offering no protection from Michael’s rough hands. You swallow hard. It is painfully clear that he has no intention of letting you go; at least, not before he has seized the opportunity to take advantage of your helpless state.

You grunt as your thighs are pushed apart. The hand on your ass slides down between your legs, and a shudder sweeps you as Michael’s fingers brush up against the tight fabric which hugs your folds. Such teasing is a rare occurance indeed. You’re almost tempted to let him continue without putting up a fight. Almost. However, in the name of being stubborn, you try and clamp your legs shut on his hands anyway.

Michael’s breaths hitch momentarily as you wiggle and squirm against him. When he draws his inhales again they come heavier than before, as if fueled by a sudden desire. His warm fingers dig into your skin and capture the hem of your tights. Without haste, the garment is shoved down your legs, gathering below your knees. Your panties go next. When Michael’s roving fingers return again, they rub along your exposed sex. You grit your teeth and bite back a moan. This isn’t like Michael— he isn’t typically this giving. You can’t help but marvel at his patience as he explores your sex, disturbingly gentle, as if he were studying some delicate curiosity.

His hot digits find your sensitive clit, and suddenly, you can no longer stifle your gasps. Any lingering thoughts of resistance are melted away into hazy, fleeting memories. A sigh falls from your lips as he teases around the pleasurable spot in tight circles, the stimulation slickening your walls until wetness pools at your opening. Michael must feel your wetness too, because his fingers abandon your clit. You whine in protest at the loss of the sensation, and the whine builds into a moan as two thick fingers are pushed into your entrance. 

The digits pump in and out of you, stopping occasionally to rub along your walls in a come-hither motion. You grip the bookcase for support as waves of pleasure rocket up your spine.

Then, the heat of Michael’s fingers falls away, leaving you empty— but only for a moment. There is the hasty drag of a zipper as Michael saddles up against your backside. Your breath catches in your lungs when his throbbing heat springs out to press between your thighs.

You groan lowly as Michael slides inside, stretching you in a way that is more painful than pleasurable; still, your muscles flex and twitch greedily around his member, desperately trying to take in more of him. Michael presses on until his hips press against your ass, and, fuck, he always makes you feel so full. His hands dig harder into the soft flesh of your waist, securing you in place.

Michael rocks his hips, his pace agonizingly slow. You curse him under your breath— you desperately want to tell him to fuck you hard and fast, like he always does, but you suspect that such a demand might only delay your release.

Thankfully, Michael can’t contain himself for long. His pace picks up as he pounds harder into you, grunting heavily. The grunts are stifled as if drawn from between clenched teeth. He gives another, and another, and one with every thrust, until his facade of self-control has slipped away like a mask, and Michael is grunting and growling and moaning.

One of his rough palms leaves your hip. He reaches up past the fallen shelf, finding the nape of your neck. His fingers dig in hard. You gasp and moan at the conflicting sensations. Each roll of Michael’s hips rocks your entire body, slapping so hard against your ass that you know you will wake up in the morning red and raw and bruised, but you don’t care. It hurts so good.  

You cry out as you come around Michael’s swollen cock. Your walls spasm and grip his member tighter. Michael’s fingers clamp down around your neck as he, too, is sent spiralling over the edge. You shudder at the sensation of the burning pressure spreading against your walls, its blissful heat dripping down your legs. You wish that you could see Michael in this moment— you want to revel in his undone state, want to watch his broad chest heaving and falling with those quickened breaths, want to watch that stubbornly empty expression slip as pleasure takes him in steady waves.

The fingers which pinch your neck disappear as Michael mercifully withdraws his hand. You slump over the bookshelf and go utterly limp, your dripping hole aching as Michael pulls away. Suddenly, he has become nothing more than a stoic shadow on the wall again, just observing you. Studying you. Or maybe, simply admiring his work. You shiver at the thought. It’s so much easier to see Michael as “The Shape” this way— nothing but a blank figure. A mere shadow of humanity.

A shadow of humanity who will hopefully now get you out of this fucking bookcase.

#Michael Myers #michael myers x you #michael myers x reader #Halloween #fanfiction #horror #slasher #slasher imagines #slasher x reader #writing

[ecotone99]

[HM] When Will This Book Store Burn? 001

Another day in the used book store with the sign: “Smokers and drinkers welcomed. Otherwise, fuck off.”

Wooden shelves make up the walls. Books stacked in every way shape and form. No void is spared if a book can be tilted or angled in.

The center of the store is home to a mixed crew of couches and armchairs. Shelves form out from the walls to create partitioned sections for the dozen customers to browse.

In the back corner of one of these nooks, sits a man behind a desk smoking a brown cigarette and reading a book by Freud. His AC/DC shirt and jeans catch the falling ash he’s failed to tap off into a small spitoon looking ashtray on his desk next to a coffee mug and a wide framed photo. The desk butts up against one shelf, but leaves a gap wide enough for an average sized person to get in and out.

A spiked barricade made of sharpened bamboo ensures people don’t.

“How much is this book?” A man holds a hardcover novel in his hand as he approaches the desk.

The homeless looking man behind the desk looks up from his book with furrowed eyes.

“Here’s a nifty trick.” He tells the customer, “Quickly open the back flap of the book and read out what it says.”

The customer opens the back flap of the book, “All it says is: I’m a cunt”.

“It’s five dollars.” The homeless man returns back to his book and drags on his cigarette.

“I… I didn’t come here to be treated this way.”

The homeless man pulls out a bottle of rum from under the desk and pours it into the mug dangerously close to his ashtray.

“And I should be in Brazil married to an island girl that decorates her hair with flowers.” He drinks from the mug. “Life is pain, suffering and disappointment. That’s an extra five bucks for the life advice.”

“I’m not paying you for that!”

“Oh, so you admit to robbing me.” He drinks from his mug again as he stares the customer down.

“I’m not robbing you. You-”

“Ten bucks and be on your way.” The homeless man puts his hand out as he looks back down to his book.

After a few moments, the customer puts two five dollar bills into the opened hand.

“Don’t drown in the beach if you’re going to buy another book.” The homeless man replies and puts the money in a metal box.

“Receipt?” The customer asks annoyed.

“Oh right, sorry.” The homeless man takes out a small piece of paper and writes on it.

He hands it to the customer.

Services rendered: One hardcover book and one life lesson teaching the customer that he’s a cunt. September 29, 2019. Adam.

The customer crumbles the paper and drops it on the ground as he stomps out.

​

Creak

Adam raises his head with his cigarette still in his mouth and looks around. Hardwood flooring makes up the entire floor. Some could confuse the shelves to be made of hardwood flooring too. Adam won’t confirm or deny that fact. With the place packed more than normal, it’s impossible to determine where it came from.

Why the two dozen customers in the store had to breathe so much was beyond Adam.

Eyeballing around, he waits for a second creak.

It never comes.

Looking back down at his book, he puffs on his cigarette…

Creak

Snapping his head up his eyes furrow.

“Who did that?” Adam yells with smoke coming out of his mouth.

The store halts and they all look to him.

“You heard me! Who went elephant stomping Thai foot massage on my floor?”

A confused look waves through the crowd.

“Poor phrasing… who creaked the floor?”

The lack of honesty in the room made Adam want to do things. Some bastard is responsible… and his water bill is expensive enough as it is. Waterboarding everyone in here is not an economical solution.

Best thing to do, go back to reading.

A customer approaches the desk with three books in hand. “How are you doing today?”

Adam looks up, “You truly want to know how a guy, who chain smokes and drinks rum from a coffee mug, is doing?”

A woman wearing a clean, pressed red blouse and slacks stomps into the store wearing sunglasses. Sunglasses that cost more than a shelf’s worth of books in this used book store. She approaches the back desk with a trendy fabric bag.

Along the way, she grabs one of the cushioned chairs from the center of the room and drags it to the desk. Scratching in a deeper cut into the flooring.

“Give me a smoke.” She demands as she steps in front of the customer.

The man meekly moves out of the way, almost afraid of touching her.

Adam looks at her for a moment, “What did you bring me?”

“Food and something better than that piss you drink.” She pulls out a bottle of wine.

Adam squints and pulls out two cigarettes from his tabletop humidor.

“No, a real fucking smoke.” She growls.

“I don’t think you deserve one. What did you bring?”

“I brought sushi.”

Adam squints at her, “I start my days with a cup of half coffee and half rum. What on God’s green Earth makes you think I want rice snacks?”

“Oh my god, I’ll get you something else later. Just-” She reaches for his humidor.

Adam grabs it and leans back in his chair. She reaches over but also tries to avoid her clothes from making contact with his desk and from knocking over the framed photo. Her fingertips just barely brush the humidor.

The customer tries to speak up, “Excus-”

“Please Adam!” The woman calls out.

“Are they California rolls?” He asks.

“Yes!” She leans a little further in.

Adam rolls his chair back just as much.

“How dare you bring that near me! Get out! Out of my store with that filth! Come back when you bring me real food!”

“It’s not fair! Everyone at work is eating out! I might have to talk to them! Don’t make me!”

“You know the rules woman! You know what this is!”

“God damn it!” The woman stomps out of the store.

The meek customer waits for a moment. Watching Adam rummage through the trendy tote bag.

“C-can I buy these?” He asks.

Adam pulls out a pressed paper box full of sushi. “It’s all fucking California rolls… god damn abomination to a Japanese delicacy. Makes Pearl Harbor seem like preemptive revenge.”

“I don’t know, I think they’re pretty good.” The customer responds.

Adam turns his eyeballs up at the man and looks at his books, “30 dollars.”

“But they say 3 dollars each.”

“Seven dollar asshole tax per book.” Adam glares. “You want those antique noir books or do you want to go twenty miles to Nars and Bogles to pick up the latest teen drama book of the summer that pushes imaginary boundaries for the spoiled brat in everyone? Screws your beach day with that lunch hour traffic.”

“Fine…” The man drops a ten and twenty dollar bill onto the desk.

“Don’t get eaten by a shark unless you’re broke!” Adam watches the man walk away. He picks out a California roll and eats it. “Hey, that’s not bad.”

The money goes in the cash box.

​

The woman in the red blouse stomps in with a paper container in hand. Only to see Adam’s chair empty.

One sushi box is open.

Empty.

The other missing.

“Adam you weasel!” She yells and looks around. “Where the hell are you?”

“Shut up!”

Looking around, she can only see customers. The tourists are confused while the native Floridians don’t even pay attention. Men and women randomly shouting at each other in public is nothing to be surprised of in this state.

Knock-knock

The woman hones in on the knocking coming from the floor. In one of the shelving nooks, Adam has an ear on the floor. The other box of sushi is open beside his face. He pops one in his mouth and knocks on the floor again.

“What’s the matter with you!” She hollers and grabs the half empty container.

“Shush, I’m hunting a creak in the floor.”

Creak

Adam’s body perks up like a cat hearing a mouse, “Where was it?”

The woman glares at him.

“Seriously! Where was it?”

“Why did you eat all of my sushi?”

“I didn’t eat all of it.”

“You left me just the vegetarian ones…”

“It’s your fault for getting vegetarian sushi. Who does that? Fish is already vegetarian.” Adam stands and scans the room. Watching every customer walk around. “Free book for the person that brings me the head to the creaking floorboard!”

No one is brave enough to acknowledge the mad ravings of a man that looks like Adam.

He turns to the woman, “Let’s drink.”

Adam flips the punji stick wall to walk to his desk. After sitting down he flips it back in place. The woman sits in the prior dragged chair. She already gets started snipping the end of a cigar and lighting it with a torch.

“You really had to go for a Black Market, didn’t you?” Adam grumbles.

“You ate my lunch.” She smiles back and puffs on the cigar.

“Sushi doesn’t even qualify as an appetizer.” Adam grabs the new box of food the woman brought.

The woman smacks his hand and Adam flinches away.

“No. Mine. Since you had to be a weasel.” She opens it and takes a bite out of the burger.

“I don’t think you understand the amount of stress I’ve been under.” He retorts, pulling out two mugs from his desk. “These people keep asking things from me.”

“We’ve been over this.” The woman uses the corkscrew from her purse and fills the mugs.

“No, they ask me things like How much does this cost?” He hands the woman a full mug as she lightly recorks the bottle. “There’s a goddamn sign right when they step in. Tells them exactly the damn prices if they’re unmarked.” They both drink from their mugs.

“They’re tourists Adam, they’re all idiots.” She sighs happily after her drink. “They willingly come here for Christ’s sake.”

“Hey!” A woman behind her yells out. “How dare you?”

“That’s right Helen, how dare you?” Adam scolds. Helen slouches and glares at Adam. “Tourists are a vital component of the Florida economy. They should be cherished, respected and celebrated for all the good they do for us. Without them, we would all be nothing! Nothing! But swamp people. Smoking cheap cigarettes and eating alligator toes.” Adam drinks more wine from the coffee mug.

“Why thank you.” The woman responds.

Helen attempts to avoid grinding her cigar with her teeth.

“By the way, how much is this book?” The woman asks.

“Get the fuck out of my store.”

​

Adam waits.

Watching everyone’s steps.

Listening.

“Where’s that damn creak coming from?” He mutters.

“Oh my God, you haven’t been listening? Have you?” Helen cries out.

“Yes I have! I’m listening to everyone’s steps in the room.”

“It’s impossible with you.” She groans and drinks more wine.

“The thing with Carl, you want his dick.” Adam announces.

“No, I said he is a dick.”

“That’s what I said, you want his dick.”

“It’s not the same thing.”

“Yes it is.”

“No it’s not.”

“Then why bring up his dick?”

“I didn’t. I was saying he’s being a dick.”

“Because you’re thinking about his dick.”

“The guy stole my client and made it look like I was trying to steal the client from him.” She groans. “You’d know that if you were listening.”

“Maybe that’s his way of asking for a date. He could have trouble talking to beautiful people and doesn’t know how to talk to a woman like you. But you barge around acting like a social goddess, looking down on those that try their hardest to fit into a society that’s quick to judge.”

“I never thought I’d see the day…” She announces with a scoff. “Someone with worse social skills than you.”

“What are you talking about? I have fantastic social skills.” Adam responds.

Helen drinks her mug and scoffs again. She looks at Adam’s serious face and is thrown off. “You’re serious? No one in this store can even tell if you’re housebroken. Not by human standards mind you. Not even me.”

“Hi, excuse me, I’d like to-” A woman steps forward with a book in hand.

“Can’t you see we’re talking?” Helen looks up at the customer from her chair. “It’s a private conversation.”

“I’m sorry, this is my sister.” Adam quickly tells the woman. “She’s visiting for the day from the mental hospital. Bi-polar with irritable bowel syndrome. Doctors say she doesn’t have much time left. I still love my sister and I’m trying to spend as much time with her until the fateful day comes. A real drag on my economic prospects due to her poor life choices. Three dollars.”

“Pfft, me? Related to you?” Helen chuckles. “More like half sister with your dad being a horse.” She puffs on the cigar.

“You’re so brave.” She tells Adam as she hands him a five dollar bill. “Keep the change.”

“Thank you and God bless.” Adam responds and gives the woman a receipt.

“You’re a real asshole, you know that?” Helen ashes her half burned cigar.

“I wasn’t kidding though, you don’t have much time left.” He responds.

“The occasional smoke isn’t going to kill me. You’re the damn chain smoker.”

“Time.”

Helen looks at her phone, “Fuck!” She stands up, grabs her purse and runs towards the door clacking her heels loudly on the floor. She then turns back, to put the cigar in the ashtray and runs off.

Adam grabs the cigar and puts it out properly. He opens his book-

Creak

“God damn it!”

​

Not a single customer in sight. Adam’s alone.

He looks around holding a rubber mallet and mug.

Every inch of the store is suspect. Every step he takes is methodical. Every moment that passes by without drinking, he’s more sober.

Drinking from his mug, he paces up and down the store. More like he paces in circles. After two full tours around the store, covering every possible board in his mind, no creak.

Nothing.

Looking around, he notices someone walk by the front windows with large proportions to their body. He finishes his mug and walks out of his store.

“Hey! You!” He yells and points his mallet at them.

They don’t turn.

“You! Fatty! Get in here and walk around!” Adam demands.

The man stops and looks around. Finally looking back and seeing a man with a patchy beard, hair that can double for a mop, ash stained rock-band shirt and jeans... he couldn’t figure out if he should be offended or quickly move on before being asked for meth.

“I need you and your heaviness!” Adam waves the mallet some more and drinks from his empty mug. “Damn it! Get in here! I need more rum!”

The man starts slowly walking away, not responding.

“I’ll buy you a slice of pizza! Come into my store! I have drinks and leftover fries!”

The man turns and picks up the pace to get away from the yelling lunatic.

“Damn it! A whole pizza then!” With the man turning a corner, Adam sighs, “How the hell do I motivate fat people to dance in my store? I think that qualifies as one of life’s biggest questions...”

He watches the tourists walk around in the small downtown area near the beach.

Adam can’t figure out why no one is willing to make eye contact with him.

It’s slow this hour. Before the end of the work day and when tourists are already out doing something to fulfill their lives. Only reason people come to his shop is to find books they can’t find elsewhere. Out of print or rare books. New discoveries in their reading adventure to take to the beach.

And because the nearest other bookstore is about half an hour away.

“Adam…” A police officer sighs. “The hell you doin’?”

Adam shakes his head, trying to think if he dozed off for a bit while standing.

“Ah!” Adam lights up when he turns. “Cops… yes… come inside and walk around. It’s totally safe for you to be in my store.”

“We got a report that you’re yelling at people.” A young officer speaks up.

The first officer drops his shoulders and looks over at his young partner.

Adam looks at the younger officer and twists his face in disgust, then looks upwards to the other “Ty, since when do you need to roll baker? Guys who bench press Buicks are afraid of you.”

“New chief, new rules.” Ty tells him. “But seriously man, what are you doing?”

“Drinking and trying to get fat people into my store.”

“So you admit to public intoxication and harassing the public?” The younger one asks.

Ty rolls his eyes and head, “We’re not doing that.”

“You wouldn’t know this young man.” Adam starts up, “But you’re in Florida. Happy hour starts at 10 am and doesn’t end until 9am. Once you graduate high school, there’s this vast world of drinks out there… that get you blitzed.”

“Law’s the law,” He announces and starts for his handcuffs, “You need to-”

“I don’t suggest it.” Ty announces.

“Wha-what do you mean?”

“For one, I’m going to vomit and shit in the back of your cruiser.” Adam announces. “I would pee too, but I just used the bathroom a few minutes ago.”

“Enough.” Ty announces loudly, “Why are you yelling at people?”

“I need people to walk in my store.” Adam lightly burps under his breath.

“Maybe if you stopped yelling at people, they would buy books.”

“Oh, no, fuck that. I need them to find a creak in the floor.”

“A creak… in your floor…”

“Yes, it’s haunting me and I can’t find it.”

“Is that why you have the hammer?” Ty asks.

“Mallet.” Adam nods and tries to drink from his mug, only to realize it’s empty again. “Damn it, I need a refill. You guys want anything?”

“No, just, stop yelling at people while looking like that.” Ty tells him, “Especially holding a damn hammer. What’s wrong with you?”

“It’s a mallet!”

Ty’s head sinks forward, “Mallet, I don’t care.”

“Fine, I’ll just stand outside and yell with a pizza in my hand.”

“Works for me.” Ty announces.

Adam burps and does a weak salute, “Have a great day master sergeant.” He turns into his store before anyone can respond.

“Master sergeant?” The young officer asks him.

“We were in Ranger batt a long time ago. He later went ODA.”

“The hell is that?”

“Green Beret.”

“I thought they were supposed to be professionals and… Rambo. Not back alley burn outs looking for crack.”

“Accidents have a funny effect on people.”

​

An elderly woman goes through the mystery section. Finding the large amount of 1920s to 1940s books a wonderful find. Taking her back to her younger years when America made steel and it was exciting to go drink.

A simpler time.

One where patchy bearded men didn’t stalk her.

“C-can I help you?” She asks.

“Ma’am, have you heard the floor creak?” Adam asks.

“No…”

“Be on the lookout…” He replies and walks away. “If you need weapons, feel free to ask.”

Adam drinks from his mug.

Looking around, all he sees are the half dozen customers. Half of his store is full of military books, fiction and nonfiction. A majority of people are always in the other fiction sections. Caring more for romance and fantasy rather than the toils of the everyday soldier in their conquest of stable mental health and surviving another day.

But it’s nearing seven o’clock on a Friday.

Adam turns an empty couch to face the back wall, still holding his mug. Then an armchair, then another couch. As his solitary act of social kindness for the month, he decides to leave the last couch, as someone is sitting in it. Moving all the furniture around should trigger the person to either get up or even potentially help out.

The later, Adam doesn’t have enough faith in humanity to believe would actually happen.

Once all the arm chairs and couches without brainless bodies were turned, he stands and stares at the man reading on the final couch.

Adam walks over to his desk to light a cigarette and refill his mug with rum. He stumbles a bit while walking over to the man. He drops himself right next to the man and puts his left arm around the man’s shoulder.

“How are you doing there buddy?” Adam asks and takes a drag on his cigarette.

“C-can I help you?” The man wiggles around, but finds Adam putting pressure down to make sure he can’t move away. A mug full of alcohol is near the man’s face makes it more difficult to move without potentially getting wet.

“That is so kind of you to ask. See, I was moving all this furniture around, right next to you. Did you notice?”

“Y-yea…”

“Oh, you did? That’s fantastic.” Adam responds, “Since you noticed, maybe you can help me out. See, I’ve been thinking about putting a new sign on my door. What do you think of: Be considerate and hold the fucking door open for people. How does that sound?”

“G-good…”

“Oh, then we’re on the same page. I’m glad we’re such kindred spirits. What about another: If you see someone moving furniture right next to you, get the fuck out of the way. What do you think of that one?”

“I-I think it’s g-good.”

“That’s great.” Adam puts his cigarette in his mouth and then reaches past the man to grab the mug from his other hand. “So, do me a favor.” Adam drinks from his mug and makes a satisfying sigh. “Pay for that book since you’ve already read half of it and dance your inconsiderate ass out of here. Sound good?”

“Yes…”

“Good!” Adam pats the man’s back. “I’m glad we could have this talk.”

The man quickly stands and goes to the back desk. Adam turns to look at him as he fumbles in his wallet.

“Do you have change for a five?” He asks.

“Leave the bill.” Adam announces.

The man opens his mouth to argue.

“I’ll take my shirt off and rub my armpit on your face.”

The man decides arguing is not the best idea to save two dollars.

“I swear if that creak comes back…” Adam grumbles and drinks.

With the last piece of furniture in position, he finishes up by putting a wooden stool against the back wall.

By seven-thirty, the store lights are dimmed. Adam and Helen sit in front of the back desk while smoking and drinking. Unlike earlier in the day, they’re not alone in drinking and smoking. People crowd the rest of the store. Filling in the couches and chairs and standing anywhere they can get a good view of the back of the store.

“Of course she’s pretty.” Helen speaks just loud enough for Adam to hear.

In front of them is a young woman playing guitar and singing without a mic. She has no trouble being heard throughout the store. It’s not large to begin with. More importantly, no one dares to compete with her soft singing and strumming of classical guitar.

“And who would you hire?” Adam whispers. “Danny Devito, right?”

Helen scoffs, “Channing Tatum.”

“I don’t think he can sing or play an instrument.”

“That’s why his shirt would be off the whole time.” She puffs on her cigar. “Almost got to hire him once.”

“Really?”

“Right before he became a star.” She smiles and looks upward. “And it was for an underwear ad too… but I didn’t have as much clout back then. Would have been a photoshoot on the beach, silky black underwear after dipping into the water... ”

“Hey, back to reality, you’re drooling.” Adam tells her. “At least I’m perfectly fine with clothed women you sicko.”

“It’s from the cigar.” She repositions her body in the chair.

“Uh-huh.”

“That reminds me, you’re an asshole.” She replies.

Adam shrugs.

“More than normal.”

He shrugs again.

“I asked Carl out. Turns out he’s not into women.”

Adam drinks a bit. “You actually thought you wanted him?”

“God damn it…” Helen folds her arms and watches the young woman go into a light guitar solo. When done, everyone in the room claps. “I kept thinking I might be repressing some sort of desire or something… You were reading Freud damn it.”

“I read something about how this is the age of detriment for women like you.” Adam finishes clapping. “Super successful and good looking, you have a really small pool of guys to pick from.”

“No shit...they’re scared shitless of me, boring or I’d rather date a dog instead.”

The indie musician asks the crowd what they want her to cover since she finished songs from her album.

“Hey, dogs are loyal… but that’s like really illegal.”

Helen snaps her body to him, “Not like that.”

“Hey, I have to be clear with you. I don’t know what you think I mean anymore. You were trying to oppress a gay guy today.”

“I wasn’t oppressing him.”

“You were totally disrespecting his life decisions and trying to force him into something he didn’t agree to. Knowing you, probably aggressive sexual harassment. Pretty closed minded behavior, unlike myself.”

“You? Open-minded? You have two shelves dedicated to Black Hawk Down and a whole shelf dedicated to just World War Two.”

“I’m perfectly fine with female Rangers. Nothing wrong with diversity. I don’t care what you identify as… just as long as it’s not as a SEAL… just no SEALs. I don’t want knuckle-draggers with Ranger tabs gallivanting around trying to get even more movie deals.”

“At least SEALs still look sexy.” She responds.

Adam tilts his head and eyeballs her, “Really? The only thing they sweep and raid after retirement are burgers.”

The young singer-songwriter starts on her next song.

“Yea, fur-burgers.”

Adam sighs. “Well done.” He puts out his mug.

“Thank you.” Helen taps his mug with her own.

They both drink.

While singing, the woman decides to stand up while playing. As she gets into it, her body starts to move with the music she plays and sings. As she steps forward-

Creak

“Found you!” Adam yells with his mallet held above his head.

-----------------------------------------

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