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Chapter Text

Wednesday, October 19th, 2022

30 Rock, Manhattan

To be honest, Whizzer Brown wasn’t thrilled about hosting Saturday Night Live . When he agreed to do it, he thought he would just show up on Saturday at noon with all of the sketches tailor-made for him from what the writers saw in interviews. Apparently, he thought wrong because here he was on fucking Wednesday, which is supposed to be his batting practice day but noooo, he has to spend it doing fucking table reads with a group of writers who look like if zombies discovered coffee was an equal substitute for brains. 

This last sketch he had to read was god awful. Thankfully, it’s the last of the day, so he can keave after they decide whether or not to move forward with a dress rehearsal. He was supposed to be playing a werewolf on a baseball team–real original, get the young hot baseball guy on SNL and have him do baseball, Jesus Christ–and the punchline was some convoluted catastrophe involving steroids and a domesticated dog, which is truly just peak comedy.

Whizzer wishes he could go live on Instagram just to tell all of those SNL isn’t funny anymore people that they actually have no idea just how unfunny the SNL writers can get, that they should be thanking a God Whizzer doesn’t believe in for table reads and drafts and editing . 

Good thing Whizzer wasn’t one of those SNL isn’t funny anymore people because he sure as hell was not thankful for the table read he was participating in. 

Generally, he liked SNL. He didn’t watch it live, obviously–why spend Saturday night on the couch watching SNL when he could be out clubbing (or getting a good night’s rest if it’s summertime and he has a game the next day). He did, however, like to watch clips of the previous night’s episode the next morning on YouTube while battling a hangover. This experience, however, was really taking the magic out of the whole thing. He pitied all of the writers and cast members, having to stay up all of Tuesday night just so they can have their hard work shot down the next day (Whizzer also made more in a year than everyone else combined does (roughly–pursuing baseball was such a good idea), so it’s extra pitiful. Thank God Whizzer almost flunked English in high school).

The character Whizzer was supposed to play, thankfully, was mostly a physical role, which meant that he could zone out and not pay attention for the second half of the sketch. His character was supposed to be freaking out of the background of the sketch, making “rabid noises” (that’s taken directly from the script sat in front of him, he could not make this up), but the cast seems unconcerned with pressing him to do so. 

Even in his not-paying-attention state, Whizzer could hear the non-performers in the room laughing, much to his surprise. He tuned back into the script reading to see what was so funny but tuned back out when he heard the words 30 rabid dogs versus one werewolf . He liked to think he deserved more advanced humor than fighting a bunch of dogs like an asshole. He’s Whizzer Brown, for Christ’s sake! The first overlap between the girls who fall for gay men and girls who fall for hot athletes demographics in mainstream media! Both he and NBC acknowledged that he would probably rake in not just a lot of viewers, but a lot of new viewers that could get exposed to a whole new way to waste the last few hours of Saturday and first few of Sunday. 

“Whizzer?” Whizzer was snapped back into reality by a woman he vaguely remembered introducing herself–Diane, he thought–questioning him. “What do you think of the sketch?”

Whizzer blinked. “Do you want me to be honest?”

“Yes,” Probably Diane confirmed. 

I was gonna be honest anyway. “I don’t like it. At all.”

Whizzer felt all of the eyes previously on him shift around uncomfortably, as if Whizzer had just said the most embarrassing thing ever. No one spoke, which just made Whizzer feel annoyed rather than uncomfortable. 

“Care to elaborate?” An annoyed voice from the far end of the room asked, finally speaking up. Whizzer searched the room for the source of the voice and found a familiar face–Marvin Cohen. 

Marvin was one of the few cast members Whizzer bothered to learn the name of. He was the Weekend Update host, and although Whizzer generally thought him to be funny enough, Marvin was memorable not because of his comedy, but because of his undeniable good looks. He wasn’t necessarily supermodel material, but he was just as attractive as one, with messy hair and broad shoulders and those arms –

“Well?” Marvin questioned, interrupting his monologue.

“Well,” Whizzer echoed. “I don’t want to do something baseball-related. Like, I already play baseball every other day of my life, and if I’m going to do this show, I feel like you all can get a little more creative, no?”

“It’s to make sure people know who you are,” Marvin argued, standing up from his folding chair. “It’s your first time hosting and you only really became famous eighteen months ago or so, it’ll help people put a face to the name and interest people in your career. It’s very standard, you’re not just some exception I’m trying to spite.”

“Oh, so you wrote it, that’s why you’re getting so defensive,” Whizzer noted. “Well, Marvin, I think your script is unfunny and uncreative.”

Marvin scoffed. “How the fuck would you know? You weren’t listening during the table read!”

Oh, guess he wasn’t being as subtle as he thought. Whoops. “Aww, were you watching me? Marvin, that’s so flattering!” Whizzer said instead of answering Marvin’s question.

Marvin’s cheeks reddened a little, but other than that remained unphased, surprising Whizzer. He half expected Marvin to go off on a homophobic-adajcent tangent. “Wow, inventing Freudian slips to avoid admitting that you actually have no idea what the fuck you’re talking about. I’d call it clever if it weren’t so pathetic.”

If you asked Whizzer-from-last-year what he would be doing a year in the future, his last response would be arguing with his SNL crush at a table read while dozens of people just sort of…observe . He’d never met this man before, but Marvin was still arguing with him like it was their hundredth fight, not first. His confidence would be intriguing or even arousing if it wasn’t so infuriating. 

“Don’t call me pathetic, you’re the one who can’t even be slightly creative despite being a literal professional writer!”

“How would you know, you didn’t read the damn script!” The look in Marvin’s eyes was uninterpretable, even to Whizzer, who considered himself very good at reading people.

For the first time since their argument started, Whizzer acknowledged the other people in the room. Said acknowledgement did not consist of more than a few pitying looks, but it did clue him in to how the room felt about the fight he and Marvin were having. About half of the room was looking at him curiously, waiting for his next retort. This was expected, Whizzer knew how to hold a crowd better than anyone. The other half looked shocked and concerned, maybe offended. Whizzer was much more pleased with this reaction. In another life Whizzer would be such a good ragebait influencer he likes to watch on his (secret and anonymous) TikTok account–he knew how to capture an audience and offend them just enough to grab their attention but not enough to receive any real backlash. Honestly, he was wasting his talents by pursuing baseball.

Whizzer decided that the onlookers’ reaction was enough to continue arguing. That, and Whizzer loves to argue.

“I actually did read the script, and as a baseball player, I find borderline offensive.” Whizzer was absolutely exaggerating, but when has that ever hurt anyone? “Do you even know anything about baseball? You don’t use like, any of the terms right,” he bluffed. He had no idea if Marvin used any baseball jargon right because Marvin was absolutely right about him not properly reading the script. 

“You’re right,” Marvin conceded, surprising Whizzer. He noted how Marvin’s eyes darkened and how his brows furrowed impossibly more. “I don’t know anything about baseball. I hate it, more than almost anything in the world. In fact, I don’t even really know who the fuck you are.”

Whizzer had to fight the frown trying to make its way onto his face. The chance that Marvin intended to hurt his feelings were slim, but it still hit much harder than Whizzer would have liked. When Whizzer said, “I don’t believe you,” he cringed at the lack of bite behind his words. 

Despite Whizzer feeling unsatisfied with his half-assed response, it apparently threw Marvin for a loop. The man flinched a little, just enough for Whizzer to notice, and something flickered on his face–something Whizzer hadn’t seen before, something that was present for too short of a time for Whizzer to interpret it. “Well, believe it, because it’s true,” Marvin, much like Whizzer, clearly did not have his heart in the argument anymore. It was probably for the best that the argument died here. Usually, Whizzer would try to start the argument back up, but Marvin wasn’t worth it. Consider his expectations of the deadpan and annoyingly hot Weekend Update anchor not met, let alone exceeded. “We’re doing the sketch, by the way. I don’t care what you say,” Marvin added after a pregnant pause. 

“Fine,” Whizzer conceded. “Just don’t blame me if it bombs and no one likes it.” Whizzer stood up and put on the leather jacket draped over his folding chair. “By the way, Marvin, because I don’t really think I’ll ever talk to you ever again, I’m gonna say this now: I told you so .” As he walked towards the door, not bothering to wait for a dismissal from whoever was in charge of the writers’ room, he chewed on his lip and tried to ignore the intense urge to vomit everywhere. 

[-]

Fuck Marvin Cohen, Whizzer thought while storming through the halls of 30 Rock. What the fuck was that shit, picking a fight with me for no reason just to claim he doesn’t know who I am. It must be bullshit. Fuck him and his stupid hair and ugly clothes. 

Whizzer regretted storming out, however, when he found that 30 Rock is a fucking labyrinth. He should’ve figured it would be hard to navigate, as he had interns guide him to whatever room he was supposed to be in when he needed to be there. Without a guide, he struggled. Every corner he turned, he found people leaving rooms, entering rooms, and filling the hallways like he’s trapped in a sardine tin. Whizzer thanked a God he rarely believes in for blessing him with height so he could at least see to the end of each corridor, even if it didn’t do him that much good in actually getting out. 

 Employees surrounded him, shoving past and shoulder checking him from every direction. Whizzer, who was usually very good in stressful situations, was on the verge of overstimulation. The thought of returning here over the following days made him want to throw a pillow at fucking Marvin’s stupid face–yes, he was still mad about that, holding grudges was a speciality of Whizzer’s. 

Eventually, after what felt like hours of flat-tiring his shoes and accidentally pushing him in hopefully-the-right-direction, the crowds parted like the Red Sea just long enough for Whizzer to make it from his 95% of the way down a hallway and into an elevator. 

He melodramatically let out a deep sigh. Whizzer appreciated the emptiness of the descending elevator as it turned out not many employees of an entertainment conglomerate got to leave as early as he did. Maybe that’s why stupid fucking Marvin Cohen had a stick up his ass–maybe he just had a long day. Maybe working for NBC made every day a long day. Whizzer fiddled with the GUEST lanyard he was wearing around his neck as a feeling that was somewhere on the spectrum of pity to guilt settled in his stomach. He attempted to will it away, forcing thoughts like it’s not your responsibility to tolerate a stranger’s meltdowns just because he might have had a bad day, into his brain. He then remembered the smug look on Marvin’s face and any pitying feeling evaporated immediately. Good. 

The elevator stopped at the 4th floor, and a blonde girl furiously texting walked on. Although her hair mostly obscured her face, Whizzer was able to recognize her from just her hair. Cordelia Campbell–another one of SNL’s cast members, one of the few Whizzer bothered to learn the name of. He always thought she was incredibly funny and stole the show every time she was on screen, and the writers must’ve known that because she was in way too many sketches. Whizzer always felt bad for her because he assumed they must’ve overworked her. 

When she looked up, Whizzer assumed he must’ve been wrong because she looked just as bubbly and enthused as when she was on the screen. “Oh my god! Whizzer Brown!” she said with a grin.

“That’s me,” Whizzer nodded, trying and failing to match her energy. His brain, body, and soul were still trying to recover from spending five minutes in the hallway. 

“I’ve gotta say, I’m a huge Mets fan, and I’m so glad they drafted you,” she admitted, her grin and energy descending to a much calmer level. “You absolutely carry the team. I mean, we wouldn’t have half as many wins as we do without you at shortstop.”

“Thanks, that means a lot!” Whizzer smiled. He’s self aware enough to know that flattery was a quick way into his heart. “You’re Cordelia Campbell, right?”

Cordelia giggled. “I am!” she sighed, tucking a piece of her hair behind her ear. “It’s still so weird being recognized by people. Like, it feels so wrong. I’ve almost said ‘you’ve got the wrong girl’ like, forty times.”

“You’re telling me,” Whizzer agreed. The elevator stopped at the ground floor and they both walked out. “It’s hard to be as sexy as me, because my immediate reaction is that the men that ask me if I’m that baseball guy are just trying to compliment me and get into my pants, but then they start hurling slurs at me and I realize that they’re actually trying to scare me off.”

Cordelia gave him a pitying look. “That’s awful, I’m sorry that happened to you.”

It was awful, but Whizzer didn’t particularly enjoy talking about the struggles of being one of, if not the first openly gay baseball players. Plus, it was an easy subject to turn positive. 

“Don’t worry, for every homophobic, middle-aged prick, there’s twelve Gen Z-ers there ready to crucify anyone who even slightly implies I’m not the best baseball player since Babe Ruth,” he said, hoping she accepts the topic change. “Which I am, by the way.”

Cordelia gave him a suspicious look immediately followed by a big smile. “Sure you are. Confidence is key, they say.”

“Hey! You just said I’m saving the team or whatever.”

“ Saving the most mediocre team in baseball and being the best baseball player ever are two very different conversations,” Cordelia corrected. The pair walked outside of the building into the crisp Manhattan air. It was about that time of year Whizzer would have to trade his light jacket for his heavy one. He usually liked to wait until the plaza he was currently looking at had a large Christmas tree placed in the center, but winter seemed to be approaching fast. “You know, I’m surprised your fans even know who Babe Ruth is .”

Whizzer scoffed playfully. “Oh, come on. Everyone knows who Babe Ruth is. Even college students who just watch baseball because they think I’m hot.”

Whizzer was aware that most of his fans were not super interested in the baseball part of his career and public image. Why else would he go on SNL and not the MLB channel or something? In fact, Whizzer kind of liked it this way because then the chances of his fans deciding to be fans of a different baseball player were exponentially lower–plus, traditional baseball fans scared Whizzer, just a little bit (See: the slurs, the shoving, the general homophobia, et cetera). 

“Sure they do,” Cordelia laughed a little, but Whizzer didn’t really understand what was funny. “So, are you excited to host?”

Whizzer had forgotten why he was even in the Rockefeller Plaza in the first place. Now, he had a bitter taste in his mouth at the thought of Marvin Cohen. “I was, but not so much now that I’ve met some of your costars.”

She groaned. “I know, I know, some of them are the worst,” she tucked her hands into the pockets of her light jacket. “I bet I can guess who it is.”

Whizzer snorted. If Marvin talks to everyone the way he talked to Whizzer, then it should be obvious. “I bet you can, too.” 

“Caroline?” Cordelia guessed.

Whizzer frowned. “I don’t know who that is,” he admitted. “It’s Marvin Cohen who decided to be an obnoxious ass.”

“Really?” Cordelia squinted. “I mean, Marvin can definitely be a pain in the ass, but he’s generally polite to strangers, especially hosts.”

Whizzer scoffed. “Well, he was definitely not polite to me. Insulted my career and everything.”

Cordelia raised her eyebrows. “Well, he definitely doesn’t like baseball, like he genuinely despises it, so maybe that’s it? I don’t know if I can remember a time another baseball player has hosted, at least since he started working here.”

“Hmm. Well, whatever, no use trying to decode a prick,” Whizzer said, biting his lip. “Let assholes be assholes, y’know?”

“Well I’m not sure I’d call him an asshole– ” Whizzer gave her a look that shut her up right there.

“Anyways,” Whizzer started, attempting to change the subject. He felt it was a waste of brainpower thinking about nuisances. “Where are you headed?”

[-]

Sunday, October 23nd, 2022

Some-Random-Bar, Brooklyn

The werewolf-baseball sketch turned out to be a big hit at dress, and then again on the night of. By the time the cast had said their goodbyes, he already had gained 15,000 followers on Instagram and about 3 billion comments on his latest Instagram post (a post not even slightly related to SNL) about ha ha ha funny werewolf man . Obviously he appreciated the attention, but Jesus Christ it wasn’t even that funny. 

He wished people were paying attention to the funnier skits, or the monologue he greatly contributed to (though he didn’t actually write it–why fuck it up when there are people getting paid to do it for him?) and provided a perfect delivery of? Why did Marvin get all of this attention instead of actually funny people?

To make things worse, Marvin’s Weekend Update was especially good, too. Weekend Update is usually reliably funny–that’s (kind of) why Whizzer noticed Marvin in the first place–but this week the writers knocked it out of the park. He kind of wished Update flopped, both because it would make the sketches look better and out of spite. Oh well, he supposed. 

Cordelia–who, as always, had a spectacular night–invited him to the afterparty with the rest of the cast. Apparently the hosts only get invites sometimes, so he should’ve felt special. He didn’t feel special, though, at least not any more special than usual. 

The afterparty was at some random bar Whizzer had never heard of in Brooklyn because nothing could ever be convenient. He had been shoved into a car with Cordelia and a few of the other cast members he couldn’t bother learning the names of and was whisked away down the extremely busy streets of New York. He sort of just stared out the window, mildly uncomfortable with being in an (admittedly large) car with a bunch of strangers and a woman that he met three days ago. Whizzer was especially good at pretending to be interested in conversations, but being wrong about the werewolf thing kind of drained him. He should’ve just declined Cordelia’s invite, but it's too late now. May as well get wasted. 

Once they arrived at the bar, time sort of sped up. Cordelia was content to just spend the whole night with him and ignore everyone else, much to both his surprise and delight. Cordelia was actually great company. She knew how to have fun–ordering him shots while promising to pay–while still displaying human decency and kindness. Unlike someone who decided to join them about halfway through the night. 

While inviting him, Cordelia promised Whizzer that Marvin would not be an issue because Marvin was an ‘anti-social prick at parties’--Cordelia’s words, not Whizzer’s. She claimed that he spent most of the night in a booth, talking to his wife, who was almost always at these parties because codependency , Whizzer supposed. Turned out tonight was one of those few nights Marvin’s wife was busy, so after spending the first hour or so lurking in the corner alone, Marvin thought it would be a good idea to join Whizzer and Cordelia at the bar. 

He was, of course, sorely mistaken. 

“Oh come on !” Marvin yelled, slamming an empty shot glass down on the table. 

“What? What, huh?” Whizzer taunted. “You know I’m right!”

“No, Whizzer, you are not right about being the namesake of millions of children around the world. ”

Whizzer scoffed. “C’mon Marvie–”

“Don’t call me that!”

“–I know you’re just scared to admit I’m right, but if you go to like, name websites and shit, there’s a huge spike in popularity for the name Whizzer in 2021,” Whizzer slurred, not bothering to take a moment to regroup and enunciate his words. Winning this argument was way more important. “I wonder what happened in that year, like, I dunno, me joining the major leagues !” 

“Yeah, the spike was when the name went from zero children in 2020 to one child in 2021!” Marvin argued, his speech just as slurred. 

“Yeah, so? I caused a spike in popularity!”

Marvin rolled his eyes. “One asshole named his child after a random baseball player on accident because he was wasted out of his mind, so what? You claimed millions of children had been cursed with your name.”

“You just assumed so many things about this dad guy, I–”

“ You assumed so many things when you said that you’re the cause of all of these children being called Whizzer! Maybe the name’s just having a comeback–”

“ Guys !” Cordelia, who had spent the past too many minutes or hours silently nursing some sort of sweet-looking drink, finally decided to pipe up. “I love you both, but please shut the fuck up! This is clearly a chicken-and-the-egg situation! Who fucking cares!”

Whizzer frowned. “Well, the chicken clearly came first. The egg couldn’t’ve been laid without a chicken there to lay it, right?”

“Did you just use a double contraction?”

“A double what?”

“A double contraction.”

“Contraction? Like, going into labor?”

“What?” Marvin facepalmed. “No. Like, combining could and not into couldn’t is a contraction. Adding have to that into couldn’t’ve is a double.”

“It is so lame that you know that,” Whizzer teased.

“Actually, it makes me very smart,” Marvin argued back. “Also, The egg came first. It’s scientifically proven.”

“Oh yeah?” Whizzer mocked. “Then riddle me this–who laid the egg? Gotcha there!” Whizzer turned to Cordelia and stage-whispered, “I totally got him there, didn’t I?” Cordelia did not humor him with a response. 

“A pre-evolution chicken, you fucking moronic –”

“ Oh my god! ” Cordelia slammed her hands into the bartop, startling both Whizzer and Marvin. “Marvin, I love you dearly, but fuck off. You are causing only problems.” With a grumble, Marvin wandered off without putting up much argument. “And Whizzer, I only met you a few days ago and I already love you, but I think it’s best you and Marvin never talk to each other again and I keep these friendships separate .”

“Agreed,” Whizzer agreed, scowling at Marvin, who has found himself back in the corner he started the night in. “Unless Marvin decides he needs help removing the stick out of his ass, I don’t ever want to see him again.”

Cordelia sighed, but didn’t respond to any of Whizzer’s snide comments. All she did was order him another shot.

Chapter Text

Tuesday, December 10th, 2024

30 Rock, Manhattan

Whizzer waltzes into the studio, throwing his small backpack onto a nearby chair that he definitely doesn’t have the right to. “So, are we ready to do this thing?” he asks the various cameramen and other employees standing around. 

One of the cameramen blinks. “You’re ten minutes late,” he says. “We’ve been ready for fifteen minutes.”

“Sorry about that,” Whizzer apologizes, “I got stuck in really bad traffic.” Extremely blatant lie. Whizzer was just not emotionally prepared to read whatever tongue-and-cheek bullshit NBC wanted him to read until about two minutes ago. 

“It’s like, 2:30. Haven’t you been here since at least 10?”

Whizzer sighs. “I meant traffic in the hallways.” That, at least, is reasonable. There is absolutely no reason for the ratio of human beings to hallway space in 30 Rock to be 5:1. Whizzer is just lucky that the bathroom he had to take a moment in is so close to the SNL set. 

Whizzer Brown is happy to be back to host SNL for a second time, only two short years since his first appearance (that he absolutely smashed out of the park, everyone thought so). Even though his first experience was just short of hellish due to a certain ex-Weekend Update host, said host has since left the show to have a flop of an acting career or something, so Whizzer is in the clear to come back. NBC has been just shy of begging him to come back, after all. 

In those two years, Whizzer’s online presence has only seemed to grow and become more relevant. In 2022, Whizzer was pretty famous. He had won Rookie of the Year in 2021, was considered one of the best shortstops in the MLB, and had about 3 million followers on Instagram. Now, in 2024, Whizzer must say that he is extremely famous. That is not him being arrogant, this is an undeniable fact. Even Cordelia, the only person keeping his ego in check, admits that he’s absurdly well-known–that’s how you know it’s true. Along with his ROTY in 2021, he has an MVP 2023 trophy sitting directly next to it. He’s considered the best shortstop and one of the best players in the whole MLB by most online articles (he’d know, he’s read them all. How can you blame him for being an egomaniac if no one ever disagrees?). And, his proudest and greatest achievement of them all is the Online Presence section of his Wikipedia page that is longer than any other section of it. SNL would be crazy to not invite him back. 

“Hey, Earth to Whizzer!” a familiar voice yells in his ear, snapping him out of his admittedly very arrogant review of the last few years of his life. 

“ Jesus, Cordelia, back up!” Whizzer whines, covering the ear he just yelled into with his hand. 

Cordelia rolls her eyes. “You zoned out for like, two minutes. They want to run the promo over one time, is that good with you?”

“Why wouldn’t it be?”

“I don’t know, you bitch about the stupidest things,” she accuses. Cordelia is, as always, dead right. 

Whizzer slings an arm around Cordelia’s shoulder. “You know me too well. Lead the way!”

“Lead the way to where we’re filming, about twenty from here?” Cordelia teases with a smirk.

“Oh, shut it.” After meeting in that elevator two years ago, Cordelia and Whizzer have become pretty much best friends, much to the joy of every chronically online person ever. Whizzer and Cordelia just sort of click in an almost unsettling way. 

Cordelia’s longtime girlfriend, Golden Globe nominee Charlotte, who Whizzer would consider himself to be good friends with, can often be seen blankly staring at the two of them as they do something stupid. Cordelia may have infinite wisdom, but if it weren’t for Charlotte keeping her in check, her impulses would’ve led her straight into debt, or maybe jail. Whizzer is known to fuel these impulses, much to Charlotte’s dismay, so she says she has to ‘supervise’ their hangouts when she’s not busy. Eventually, supervising turned into genuinely wanting to hang out because as everybody knows, Whizzer is so much fun to hang out with and the three formed a little trio that can be found at a random dive every Friday night from October to February. 

Cordelia and Whizzer walk those brutal seven yards to where a random producer is standing with the musical guest for the week. The two seem to be engaged in an oddly intense conversation, the producer flinging his hands around as the musical guest nods along.

Whizzer is very, very familiar with the musical guest, a thirty-something woman known professionally as Trina Friedman. For one, she's an extremely famous singer-songwriter. She has like five billion Grammys or something in the ten or so years she’s been releasing music. She also composed some musical Whizzer didn’t bother to learn the name of–let alone see–while playwright and director Mendel Weisenbachfeld wrote the script–or book, as Charlotte has corrected him so many times. And of course, most importantly, Whizzer knows that Trina Friedman isn’t her full name, that it’s actually Trina Friedman Cohen . Because of course she just has to be married to Whizzer’s sworn enemy. 

Whizzer very rarely sees Marvin. After experiencing a Marvin-Whizzer fight at the bar, Cordelia has done her very best to keep her friendships with them individual and separate. She makes sure to not mention Marvin to Whizzer, and Whizzer hopes she does the same for him to Marvin. Charlotte, however, recently started working on a TV show with Marvin created and written by Mendel Weisenbachfeld (this guy is everywhere , Jesus Christ), so Charlotte has been politely asked by both Whizzer and Cordelia to avoid mentioning him when venting about work with Whizzer in the room. 

He’s also a little scared that if he engaged in conversation with Marvin now, for whatever reason, he would end up liking him when it’s so much fun to hate the man. Whizzer finds it productive and soothing to have a mental punching bag like Marvin. When he’s stressed or annoyed, he imagines kicking Marvin the shins or, in more…severe cases, pushing him down a flight of stairs, and the negative feelings all go away. It’s very convenient and rewarding, Whizzer recommends. 

When Whizzer found out he would be hosting with Marvin’s wife as the musical guest, he almost requested a change in weeks or musical guest. He ended up not doing that because he didn’t want Trina to tell Marvin and for Marvin to think Whizzer gives a shit about him, because he doesn’t.

Whizzer looks at Trina and the producer for a few moments more before deciding to intervene in the conversation. He really just wants to get home as quickly as possible. “Hey, sorry to interrupt this oh-so riveting conversation, but do you think we can do this thing? The rehearsal or whatever?”

Every week on Wednesday, SNL releases a promotional video for the upcoming episode featuring the host, the musical guest, and one of the cast members (this week, conveniently, Cordelia). It’s Whizzer’s favorite part of the week, other than the actual show, because it’s quick and takes very little effort. 

The producer blinks. “You realize we were waiting for you to come back from Mars or wherever you were in your head, right?” he says with a snark Whizzer really doesn’t appreciate. 

Whizzer puts his hands up like he just got caught doing something criminal. “Woah, what’s got you on edge?”

“I don’t know, maybe the fact that I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes for you to show up, and when you finally do, you ignore me!”

You know what? That’s fair enough, he thinks. 

“You know what? That’s fair enough,” he says. “My bad.”

Whizzer may have an ego when it comes to his achievements (who wouldn’t?), but he likes to think he’s pretty sensible about the other aspects of himself. If someone has a valid reason to not like him, then he’s got to acknowledge that. What he doesn’t like and won’t respect is people who make rash judgements of him in their head and then take it out on him for no good reason (cough, cough, Marvin ). But who cares? It’s not like people hate him all that often. 

The producer guy sighs. “Okay, I’m gonna make sure the cameras are ready. You three just look over your like, four lines or whatever.” He walks away towards the cameraman, who is fiddling with the camera absentmindedly.

Trina turns to Whizzer, a surprised expression on her face. “I didn’t expect you to be able to say sorry like that,” she says, crossing her arms.

Whizzer forces a polite laugh. “Oh, has Marvin been slandering my good name?” 

Trina laughs. “Oh, never. Our son’s too big of a fan,” she winks. 

“I didn’t know you had a son,” Whizzer lies. “What’s his name?” Honestly, he doesn’t really care, but Cordelia will probably kick him if he isn’t polite to Trina.

“Jason. He’s ten now, and he’s just the smartest boy.”

“Jason is kind of intimidating, I’m not even gonna lie,” Cordelia says while she skims the script. “In a good way, obviously,” she adds when she sees Trina’s disapproving glare. 

Whizzer is under the impression that they are friends–not best friends, just friends. Cordelia knows Marvin well, and from what he’s heard, Trina goes where Marvin goes, so Trina and Cordelia have spent a fair amount of time together. 

She’s very sweet, Cordelia said one time when Whizzer had asked, both of them very…inebriated. She’s just…not much else, if you ask me. 

Trina purses her lips. “I don’t know how a ten year old can be intimidating in a good way, but I’m sure you’re not insulting my son.” It’s a comment that in theory should be passive aggressive, but when Trina says it, it seems genuine. 

“I just meant that it’s scary how intelligent he is,” Cordelia explains with a forced laugh. “Like, I talk to him and I think, I can tell I’m talking to my future president, you know?”

Trina beams. “Oh, yes! I see what you mean now. I’ll tell him you said that, he loves hearing the praise of adults. On second thought, maybe that’s exactly why I shouldn’t tell Jason.”

“Maybe I should tell him in person then! Is there any time you and Marv can visit?”

Whizzer, feeling uncomfortable with watching people plan an event he’s not invited to, slinks off into the corner and starts scrolling on his phone. He starts on TikTok, but after a few scrolls he sees a sketch from the last time he was on SNL (not the werewolf one, thank god) reposted by the official account to promote his triumphant return, which feels a little too meta so he quickly closes the app and decides to rot his brain on Instagram Reels instead. 

After like, forty five seconds at most, Cordelia joins him in the corner whilst Trina joins the mildly irritating producer. “She’s very protective of her son,” she says, staring into the distance instead of making eye contact with Whizzer. 

“I’d believe it,” Whizzer says dumbly, looking away from her to mimic her lack of eye contact. 

“Mhm. Why’d you run off?”

“Felt awkward. I can tell she doesn’t like me and no way in hell was I gonna get invited, so I left. I think it’s more polite to doom scroll in the corner rather than in the middle of a conversation I was half a part of.”

“Ah,” Cordelia makes a clicking noise. “She doesn’t hate you, you know. Obviously. I think you two would get along. Maybe even you and Marvin.”

Whizzer scoffs. “Yeah right. You’re the one who said we should stay separate, remember?”

Cordelia considers this. “Yes, I did say that. One time, while very drunk. I sort of assumed that either I would barely ever talk to you again, or separate would be temporary as you and I grew closer. But both of you are very, very adamant on holding a grudge over like, two conversations you guys had like two years ago.”

“Hey, we’ve spoken more than twice,” Whizzer weakly defends. 

“Yeah? When?”

Whizzer’s mind goes blank. He knows they’ve happened, but any and all examples oh so conveniently flee from his brain. 

“That’s what I thought.” That damn smirk on Cordelia’s face is both adorable and infuriating. 

“It’s the principle of the thing,” Whizzer says, accepting defeat. “And, he’s a huge prick.”

“You know, you sound exactly like Marvin,” Cordelia notes. In his peripheral, he can see her turn to face him. “Like, I think he’s said those exact words to me.”

Whizzer turns to face her. “Oh, fuck off.” And there isn’t much more to say, so they bask in the comfortable silence. 

After a few moments, Trina approaches them, holding her barely looked at script. “Okay, they’re ready to film now, I think. Or I don’t know, maybe another complication will come up. Seems to happen a lot.”

Cordelia laughs. “Oh, honey, you have no idea. You think one week is hard? Imagine this being your paycheck. I should’ve pursued culinary school, I swear!”

“Cordelia, love, if your cooking is anything to go by, opting out of culinary school was the right choice,” Whizzer says. Trina stares at him like he just flipped off Jesus. 

Cordelia’s cooking is, objectively, awful. Whizzer, upon first tasting it, started making jokes before realizing that it was taboo to actually critique Cordelia’s cooking. He’s under the impression she thinks he’s the only one who doesn’t like it, but even Charlotte can’t help but fake fullness at some mealtimes. 

Cordelia lightly hits his arm. “ Whizzer Brown! My food belongs in a Michelin-star restaurant!” She’s obviously joking, but Whizzer doesn’t miss Trina’s grimace from where Cordelia can’t see. 

“Hey! Jackasses!” the producer yells. Maybe he is just an asshole, Christ. “Time to film. No more dilly dallying!”

Trina, smartly, decides to hurry over without a word. 

Cordelia and Whizzer, dumbly, decide to laugh at the use of dilly dally and get a brief reprimand from several men who Whizzer does not work for and never will. 

Oh well, just the movie star life, he supposes, knowing full well he's not even a movie star. If this is as close as he can get to that, then so be it.  

[-]

Friday, December 13th, 2024

30 Rock, Manhattan

Friday the 13th is an unlucky day, Whizzer is aware, but superstition has never gotten to him before. Whizzer is actually fascinated with this type of stuff, but not so much in a historian-slash-professor way, more in a moving the Ouija Board to say ‘fuck you Oscar’-- or whoever the fuck he was playing with–way, back in the sixth grade. Always freaked out the other boys, which was enough to make Whizzer feel just a little better about the names they called him in the hallway when they walked by. Whizzer generally likes kids, but he’s not sure he could ever have or raise them because he’s about 90% middle schoolers (Whizzer doesn’t like to be a misandrist, but usually the boys, with middle school him being the obvious and possibly only exception) are possessed by the actual devil. 

Anyway, Friday the 13th. Whizzer thinks it’s bullshit. It is bullshit, until it isn’t.

It’s bullshit until Whizzer walks into 30 Rockefeller on a fateful Friday morning to rehearse a few of the bigger sketches. This time, without Marvin to antagonize him, he paid no attention to what sketches were happening with who or what he was even gonna be forced to do in front of millions of people. 

I’ll do whatever you want me to do, just make sure it’s funny. If it’s not, it kind of fucks with my brand, you know? Whizzer had told whoever the fuck the head writer is now. He’s starting to regret his words now, because contrary to popular belief, Whizzer does actually like to know what the fuck is going on. 

He stands in the middle of the stereotypical SNL wedding reception venue as employees whose names will probably never be known race around and decorate it with fake roses and other items you’d find at the world’s most basic wedding. 

He’s like 65% sure he’s playing a best man who shit talks both the bride and groom when they’re out of the room in the sketch, and he has actually read the script, he just didn’t really process it because he had a caffeine buzz distracting him at the early morning of the hour. He isn’t actually quite sure what they’re doing right now, but some official looking guy told him to stand here, so stand here he will. Until something more interesting arises. 

It’s when he’s standing there that he sees him. Him, looking older and wiser and more muscular. Him, wearing the ugliest shirt Whizzer has ever seen. Him, glaring at Whizzer when he finally notices him . 

“Fuck me,” Whizzer mutters, and he finally realizes that all of those not-unlucky Friday the 13ths have been accumulating to give him the worst Friday the 13th anyone can imagine. 

Because here Marvin fucking Cohen is, standing with the same smarmy producer Whizzer had to deal with on Tuesday like they’re best friends. Honestly, Whizzer wouldn’t be surprised if they actually are, considering their competency at assholery. 

Marvin is looking at him. It isn’t a flattering, flirty checking him out, which is the look Whizzer is most used to receiving. It also isn’t a violent, angry death glare that Whizzer receives an almost equal amount. It’s a secret third thing, not really all that angry or serious, but still…mocking. It’s condescending, that’s what is. 

Fuck Marvin, that prick, Whizzer thinks as Marvin finally realizes it’s rude to stare. But instead of just turning away, he decides to approach. 

“Hey,” Marvin says, a poor attempt at being casual. 

“Hey yourself,” Whizzer responds, much less genuine. “Why are you here?”

“What do you mean why am I here? I used to work here.”

“Most companies and businesses don’t let fired employees back into the building.”

Marvin gives him a disappointed look. “You know I didn’t get fired. I left the show.”

This, Whizzer knows, is true. Doesn’t mean he can’t tease about it. “Yeah? Why’d you do that?”

Marvin quickly looks away. “To explore other options. More traditional television, you know?”

“Sure, sure,” Whizzer says, crudely mocking interest. “How’s that working out for you?”

“Very well, actually, thanks for asking.”

Once again, another semi-unfortunate truth. Marvin’s new show is actually supposed to be good or something, but it hasn’t come out so Whizzer isn’t sure. The only reason this is good news is because Charlotte is starring alongside Marvin, which also means Whizzer is gonna have to sit through several hours of Marvin content. At least he’s nice to look at. 

“Sure it is, right,” Whizzer says. “You never answered my question: why are you here?”

“I’m gonna be in this sketch, the wedding one,” Marvin finally admits, but Whizzer almost wishes he hadn’t because he could’ve waited until tomorrow and not lost any sleep over the pure frustration . “I wanted to come back at some point this season, do a sketch or two. I wasn’t ever an actor on SNL, thought I should show off my talents before my television show premieres.”

Whizzer scoffs. “Sounds like you should host.”

“I don’t want to host this soon after leaving the show. Fans get excited when they see their favorite former cast member in one sketch, it hypes it up for when they actually host.”

“Bold of you to assume your anyone’s favorite former cast member.”

“I am at least one person’s favorite–”

“Wow Marvin really! One whole person?”

“–former cast member, and there are going to be many people excited to see me tomorrow night.”

Whizzer rolls his eyes. “Fine, whatever. But why tonight? Why my night?”

“Um, actually, it’s not just your night,” Marvin says. “Remember my lovely wife that’s hosting tonight? She told me about your meeting, by the way, she somehow was a little bit charmed by you–don’t let it get to your head, jackass, I can see on your face that you are. What was I saying? Oh right. My wife. Trina. I love her, and it would be weird if I appeared the week after she was the musical guest.”

“ It would be weird if I didn’t. What a compelling reason,” Whizzer mocks. “I actually liked her, too. She can do way better than you.”

“Thanks for your input on my marriage, man who is very famously a whore and doesn’t like relationships,” Marvin whisper-yells, attempting to get up in Whizzer’s face but failing miserably due to the almost pathetic height difference. He also is being very quiet to avoid attention from his underpaid friends from his years of work here.

Whizzer assumes that calling him a whore is supposed to hurt him, but at this point it doesn’t. He’s heard it enough times, and it isn’t even all that true. He’s a whore by baseball player standards, which isn’t saying much considering most baseball players have a wife by the time they’re like 24. Whizzer, who is exactly that age, doesn’t see the rush. He’d rather have fun in his twenties and worry about marriage once he’s in his thirties and has made $100 million dollars hitting a ball with a piece of wood. That’s what she said. 

“Yeah, Whizzer Brown’s such a whore , says the man who almost definitely cheats on his wife every other Saturday with some random girl he meets in a bar. Or guy, if he’s feeling frisky and drunk enough,” Whizzer bites back. It’s mostly a joke, but Whizzer likes to play with fire, especially when he ends up getting burnt. 

Marvin stands on the balls of his feet, getting very close to Whizzer’s face. “Don’t you ever talk about my marriage, or my family, ever again,” he growls. He shoves Whizzer a little bit and storms off before Whizzer can even think of anything to say. 

Friday the 13ths are unlucky Whizzer has finally realized, so now he must go home this evening and pray to God or Satan or whoever controls superstitions to free him from having to ever see Marvin again. As soon as possible, because Saturday is looking very dreadful.

Chapter Text

Sunday, December 15th, 2024

Somewhere in New York City

i.

December is a good time to host Saturday Night Live, Whizzer discovers, because the afterparties are fucking insane. They’re at some club in some neighborhood Whizzer didn’t bother to learn the name of and he feels like he’s been both transported back in time and catapulted into the future. 

By that he means there’s a lot of coke. Like, a lot of it. 

Contrary to (for some reason) popular belief, Whizzer is not some coke whore who spends every waking minute blowing some stranger while jerking off two others. The one major downside to being a baseball player with an audience that’s unfamiliar with baseball and sports in general is that they think you can get away with anything. They think of Whizzer as an influencer who plays baseball rather than a baseball player who posts on Instagram a lot. They don’t think about his manager, or his (admittedly small but still existent) PR team, or the fact that there’s regular drug testing in the MLB, or the fact that you actually have to practice to stay in the Major Leagues and if you don’t do enough of that, you can easily get booted down to Triple A or (God forbid) Double A. Most of his fans probably quit sports after eighth grade and don’t realize that professionals have to do more than just one, whole team practice a week. Even if Whizzer wanted to live the ‘70s rockstar life, he couldn’t because high school Whizzer learned the hard way that playing baseball with a hangover is one of the worst feelings in the world.  He can’t even imagine how it would feel after using a real drug. 

Whizzer, of course, still drinks. Alcohol is not banned by the MLB, and Fridays and Saturdays are great for getting drunk because he has no practice on Sundays and he has fielding practice (hitting the ball with the bat is the painful and difficult part, so fielding practices aren’t so bad with a hangover) on Saturday at like 2:00, and only for like an hour and a half. Tonight is a great example of when a good time to drink is. No practice tomorrow, he’s out with both Cordelia and Charlotte (who just got back in town last week from filming something), and he’s got another great SNL episode down. 

Tonight–or last night because it’s technically Sunday, he supposes–he absolutely killed it. His monologue was hilarious, he broke character less than he did last time, and he was able to get into character much better because he actually read the scripts the night before rather than two minutes before dress on Saturday. The cast, as always, was spectacular. On Update, Cordelia debuted a grandma character he’s sure is gonna be an instant classic. Whizzer didn’t realize just how talented Trina is until he was in person while she was singing. She has a voice unlike any other, it’s insane. It’s just a shame all of her songs are about freaking Marvin (who, admittedly, also did well in his one sketch), who was being a huge dick the whole night. He kept glaring at Whizzer for no good reason and just generally being a pain in the ass to be around. Oh well, Marvin is manageable. 

Whizzer, at the moment, is alone. Cordelia said she was going to get him another drink, but she’s been gone for far too long for that to be true. He’s only a little tipsy right now, and he could really use another drink. So, he does what any rational person would do and heads for the bar. 

On the way there, he’s stopped by a man Whizzer has never seen before. Based on his nice button up shirt, he’s probably an executive of some kind. “Hey, you’re Brown, right?” the man questions. “Like from baseball?” 

Whizzer stands there awkwardly. “Uh, yeah,” he says, looking into the depths of this random man’s blown out pupils.”Why?”

The man laughs and slaps Whizzer’s back rather hard. “Dude, you have to come do a line with me and my wife. See her, right there?” he points to a pretty woman sitting down at a table. “She’s a huge fan, but I think she just thinks you’re hot.”

Whizzer’s glad he’s not allowed to do lines, because it gives him a reason to say no other than I’d rather die . “Sorry, man, can’t.”

“Ah, sure you can!”

“No, I really can’t. MLB rules and such.”

The man slaps Whizzer’s back again. “Well, they MLB will never know, will they?”

“No they actually will, you realize they do regular drug tests, right?” Whizzer explains. 

The man shrugs. “Your loss, I guess. How about you still come talk to me and my wife, huh?”

Jesus, why does this guy want Whizzer to talk to his wife so bad? Does she want to straighten him out or something? Or worse, do they want a threesome ? That’s funny, Whizzer would rather die. “I’m alright, man. Got things to see, people to do,” he awkwardly jokes. 

“Oh come on–”

“Okay, this is just straight up painful to watch,” an annoyingly familiar voice says, interrupting the man’s strange and unexplained desperation. Marvin walks in between Whizzer and Random Guy, which Whizzer didn’t even know was possible because Random Guy was uncomfortably close. “Listen, I don’t know when Whizzer learned how to be polite, because I’ve certainly never experienced it, but he wants you to fuck off. So fuck off.”

Random Guy scoffs. “If he wanted me to fuck off, he would’ve said so by now. He wants to be wooed, don’t you see?”

“No I would really love for you to fuck off,” Whizzer says. He’s internally thankful that Marvin came over because he doesn’t know if he would’ve been able to get out of the conversation before his extremely limited patience ran thin and he said–or did–something way worse. 

“Wow he must really want you to fuck off, if he’s actively agreeing with me,” Marvin comments, making any appreciation of Marvin evaporate immediately. “I don’t know if you know this, but Whizzer doesn’t like me all that much.”

“I’m just too drunk to bother arguing with you,” Whizzer lies.

“That’s bullshit on all accounts,” Marvin argues, turning away from Random Guy to face Whizzer. Random Guy had been standing really close, so now Marvin’s standing even closer because of the way he had awkwardly inserted himself between the two of them. Whizzer can smell his cologne, a surprisingly pleasant, musky smell. Whizzer generally likes the scent, but on Marvin it annoys him.

“ That’s bullshit on all accounts ,” Whizzer mocks, usually a nasally voice that sounds absolutely nothing like Marvin. “You should learn to talk like a real person, Marvin. May get you places.”

“It is bullshit, though,” Marvin continues, ignoring Whizzer’s snide comment. “You’re not that drunk, I can’t smell any alcohol on your breath.”

“Wanna try again?” Whizzer teases, breathing out directly into Marvin’s face. “Smell it now, Marvie?”

“Don’t call me that,” Marvin snaps. “And I don’t even need to smell your breath to know if you’re drunk because I can tell you’re not.”

“Yeah, and how’s that?” Whizzer challenges, crossing his arms. He finally notices that Random Guy has been gone for who knows how long. 

“I know you’re not drunk because if you were, you would have been arguing with that man. Or me. Or both,” Marvin explains. He notices Whizzer staring where Random Guy previously was, turns around, and follows Whizzer’s gaze. “Oh. I guess he’s gone.” Marvin doesn’t take a step back from Whizzer. 

“Fine,” Whizzer says. “You caught me. I’m not drunk, but I desperately need to be. So, if you don’t mind, I’m gonna go get a drink.”

Marvin stares at him, eyes full of an emotion Whizzer can’t quite place. Whizzer looks back, unable to move away. “I’ll buy you a drink,” Marvin says eventually, that look disappearing instantly. Immersion shattered. 

“Is that a good idea?” Whizzer asks, but he knows it’s not. He doesn’t even really want to get a drink with Marvin–he really does not like the guy. That being said, he won’t fight it if Marvin decides to buy him one anyway. What kind of psycho turns down a free drink?

“Do you care?” Marvin asks instead of answering, raising his eyebrows.

“Not when a free drink is involved. Woo me, Update Boy!” Whizzer teases, grabbing Marvin by the wrist and dragging him towards the bar. He can vaguely hear Marvin behind him, protesting but not attempting to physically stop Whizzer.

When they get to the bar, there’s only one stool left open, so Whizzer obviously sits down without consulting Marvin. If Marvin cares, he doesn’t say anything about it. “So what do you want?” Marvin asks. 

“Don’t care,” Whizzer says immediately. “Something that will get me drunk. And fast.” Marvin rolls his eyes but walks off to the other end of the bar where the bartender is.

Whizzer doesn’t know why Marvin offered to buy him a drink, if he’s being honest. Last time he really spoke to Marvin, Whizzer had been yelled at for…something. What did Whizzer do to piss him off? Imply that he’s cheating on his wife? That’s right, he definitely did that. Very much a dick move, but Whizzer thinks that Marvin deserved it, or that he at the very least was wanting a reaction. Whizzer hates people like that–people who beg for attention and then bitch and complain about it. Don’t dish it out if you can’t take it, his mother used to tell him. Good thing he can (almost) always take it. 

Marvin returns with two drinks, holding one out to Whizzer. Whizzer doesn’t even look before grabbing it and taking a large sip–he wants to be drunk fast , it is far too late to be this sober. 

However, he does not experience the pleasant buzz of alcohol going down his throat. Instead it burns and it takes all of Whizzer’s might to not spit it out. “ Jesus, what is this?” he yells. He looks at the glass and realizes that it’s both completely still and completely clear. “Is–is this fucking Everclear ?”

Marvin grins. “I asked for the highest proof drink they have, so probably.”

Whizzer scoffs. “Oh fuck you, Marvin,” he sputters. “I should’ve known you have no capacity for kindness.” Whizzer starts to walk away, intentionally bumping Marvin’s shoulder. But then he turns around. “I should throw this in your face, I think.”

Marvin covers his eyes with his elbow, which draws Whizzer’s attention to Marvin’s…unfair biceps. “Please don’t,” Marvin says without moving his arm. 

“Marvin saying please? Never thought I’d live to see the day,” Whizzer comments. He wishes Marvin’s arm would go down so he can see the amused grin on Whizzer’s face. And also because those arms would be less distracting at his sides. 

“Well you don’t know me, so I’m not surprised,” Marvin argues, still not bringing his hand down from his face. It’s starting to annoy Whizzer. 

Whizzer sighs and says: “Okay, you can put your arm down. There’s no point in doing it after saying I was gonna.” 

Marvin hesitantly lowers his arm, squinting his eyes like someone’s shining a bright light directly into them. Paranoid fuck. 

Whizzer decides to prove Marvin’s paranoia correct when he jerks his hand holding the glass forward, causing a little bit of liquid to fall onto the floor, maybe an inch in front of Whizzer. It’s still enough to cause Marvin to fully flinch and cover his face again. 

After feeling no alcohol hit his arm, Marvin puts his arm down and glares at Whizzer. “Not funny. You could’ve seriously damaged my eyes if that shit got in there, and I would’ve sued and ended your career.”

Whizzer just laughs at Marvin’s seriousness. “Don’t hand your enemy a gun if you don’t want to get shot, Marvie.”

“Fuck off. And don’t call me Marvie,” Marvin says as he takes a sip of his drink–whiskey, by the look of it. “You’re not my enemy, anyway,” he adds as an afterthought.

“Oh, I’m not?” Whizzer asks, raising his eyebrows. 

“No,” Marvin confirms. “I don’t care enough about you enough for you to be my enemy. I have more pressing people to hate for more pressing reasons.”

“Do you now?” It’s not that hard to believe that others may find Marvin just as unlikeable as Whizzer does. “Who’s my competition?”

“That’s none of your business,” Marvin answers vaguely. 

“I think it is,” Whizzer presses. “C’mon Marvin, I won’t judge. Probably.”

“No,” Marvin snaps, firmer and harsher than necessary. Whizzer can only barely stop his recoil. “Fuck off. Bye. Fuck you.” He turns around and storms away.

Um, what the fuck? What did Whizzer do to deserve that ? He hadn’t even pried too much. Okay, Whizzer knows he can push personal boundaries too much from time to time, but he didn’t even ask anything that personal! That was a massive overreaction. 

Whizzer takes another sip of his drink, momentarily forgetting what it is. He is harshly reminded as he holds back coughs while the probably-Everclear burns down his throat. How the fuck had Marvin even convinced the bartender to pour a whole glass of this shit? Probably paid him a shit ton. Fucking asshole. 

ii. 

The next time Whizzer sees Marvin, it’s about an hour, three shots and that one glass of Everclear later. 

Whizzer’s sitting at a table with Cordelia and Charlotte. Well, not really sitting. Whizzer struggles with sitting in chairs like a normal person, so he’s more so squatting on top of a chair than sitting on it (Charlotte has expressed her concern twice, but Cordelia was quick to shut any of those down quickly. Let him fall, she said to her worried girlfriend. If he does, maybe he’ll sober up or maybe even learn his lesson. )

“You should host the next one of these at a karaoke bar,” Whizzer’s saying. He’s pretty sure he’s doing a good job at not slurring his words.

Cordelia laughs. “Yeah? Why is that?”

“Um, because obviously!” Whizzer’s hands flop around, exacerbated. “Dude, that would be so awesome. I would absolutely fucking kill some Queen right now,” to show how good it would be, he starts singing, “ tonight, gonna have myself a real good time. I feel ali-i-i-ive– ”

“Okay, that’s enough of that,” Charlotte cut him off. 

“What, don't you like my singing voice?” Whizzer teases. It’s bad, which is the best part about it. 

“I plead the fifth,” she replies.

“Okay, wait, I’ll win you over with my epic skills, don’t you even worry Charlotte,” he racked his brain for a moment to come up with an epic karaoke song before landing on a good one. “ All we have to do now, is take these lies, and make them true, somehow. All we have to see-ee, is that I don’t belong to you, and you don’t belong to me! Yeah, yeah! ” Whizzer quits while he’s ahead with that one. 

Cordelia golf claps with a laugh, her giggles barely able to be heard over the loud club. “Bravo, bravo!” She cheers. “I think you’ve got a Grammy headed your way soon.”

“I’m surprised that’s the George Michael song you went with,” Charlotte laughs. “Thought you’d butcher something sexier like ‘Father Figure.’”

Whizzer grins and stands up. “Oh, I can do ‘Father Figure.’”

“Oh, that wasn’t an invitation–”

It’s too late. Whizzer’s already starting to sing the words. “ I will be your father figure, put your tiny hand on mine, ” he starts doing sloppy, crude body rolls. “ I will be your preacher teacher, anything you have in mind. ”

Charlotte groans and covers her eyes. “Oh god, make it stop!”

Whizzer sighs and takes his seat once again. “Fine. Just because I fear if I continue, I’ll just make every man who witnesses my sexy display hard.”

Cordelia makes a noise of disgust. “Whizzer, that’s gross, even for you!”

“Sorry, sorry– aroused ,” Whizzer corrects, putting on a sultry voice. “Is that better for you?”

“I’m, like, ten times more disgusted now,” Cordelia comments, rubbing her temples. 

“I can never win with you two, I swear,” Whizzer says, switching his position in the chair so he’s leaning back with his feet on the table. 

Charlotte exaggerates a gagging noise. “Oh my god, get your feet off of the table, you heathen !”

“Don’t call me a heathen, I’m like, the furthest thing from a heathen,” Whizzer objects, putting his feet down. “I’m a two-for-one special, actually.”

“Yeah? When was the last time you were in a synagogue? Or a church?” Charlotte challenges.

“Oof, can’t go inside churches. I start burning because I’m such a sinner ,” Whizzer quips. “When I was a kid, my dad took me and some holy water got, like, splashed on me and my hand actually dissolved. It grew back by the time I woke up the next day, don’t worry.” He winks at Charlotte, who rolls her eyes. 

“Wow, riveting story,” a voice says from behind Whizzer. Great, just who I wanted to see. 

Whizzer exaggerates an eyeroll for Charlotte and Cordelia before turning around to face his favorite person. “Hello there Marvin! How polite of you to eavesdrop on our conversation.”

“I know, that’s why they call me Polite Marvin.” Marvin looks…drunk. His hair is messier than it was however long ago, his curls covering his forehead like ineffective curtains. The top two buttons of his ugly button up are undone, showing just a hint of an undershirt. 

Whizzer makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “Wow, clever nickname.”

“College friends came up with it, and you know what they say. Don’t get into Columbia for witty nicknames.”

Whizzer decides to ignore the obvious bragging and obvious (at the very least) exaggeration. “Wow, you have friends?” He teases.

“Low hanging fruit,” Marvin snaps back. “Not clever, maybe a 3/10 response? I expect better from you Whizzer.”

“Expecting anything from me was your first mistake. I thrive on unpredictability. I might be a secret prodigy at something and you’d have no idea. I’m elusive like you’ve never seen before.” Whizzer quite enjoys hyping himself into something he very much knows he isn’t. It doesn’t matter what the truth is if enough people believe the white lie. Truth is relative–Whizzer’s pretty sure he heard that on TV once (and so what if that show was Community ? Jeff made a good point!).

“Schrödinger’s talent,” Marvin agrees. “We can only assume you’re both the most and least talented person in the whole universe.”

Whizzer snorts. “Where’’d you learn that? Columbia?” 

“No, a search on the internet when I was like ten. If you don’t know Schrödinger’s cat in Psychology 101 at Columbia, you’d probably get laughed out of the class.”

Whizzer frowns. If it’s Psychology 101, why would they expect you to have any prerequisite knowledge? He thinks. He lets it slide. 

“Did the internet even exist when you were ten, old man?” Whizzer retorts instead of responding to anything real Marvin may have said. He quickly glances at Cordelia and Charlotte, who are engaging in their own conversation but pretty obviously eavesdropping. 

Marvin mirrors Whizzer’s cop-out response with an eye roll, except it’s way more pathetic because Whizzer’s statement can pretty easily be refuted with a simple ‘yes,’ but who is Whizzer to judge? “Okay, then, what’s your secret talent?” Marvin asks with a shit-eating grin, like he’s caught Whizzer is some trap. 

Whizzer had honestly forgotten where their conversation had started in the few minutes since it started. “Well,” he starts, pondering for a moment. There are actually quite a few things he’s pretty good at–painting, crocheting, and especially photography are where his creative talents lie. However, a genuine answer wouldn’t piss Marvin off, so there would be no point. “I’m known to be quite the singer.”

“No! No, no no !” Charlotte chimes in, now not even pretending not to listen. “Whizzer, I swear to God–”

“ Ro-o-xanne, you don’t have to put on the red light !” Whizzer sings as obnoxiously as he can, mostly to piss Marvin off and get him to leave. He probably should have expected it to have the opposite effect, but he’s still surprised and a little offended when Charlotte storms off, dragging Cordelia with her. 

“Bye Whizzer! Bye Marvin!” Cordelia yells as Charlotte whisks her away. 

Whizzer waves goodbye to her before begrudgingly turns back to Marvin. “What do you think? Think I can make it on Broadway?”

Marvin snorts. “I think I should get a medal for sitting through that and not running away like Charlotte did.”

“Well, you’re actually standing, so…”

Marvin flips him off. 

“So,” Whizzer starts, unsure of where to go from here. “Why’d you walk over to me in the first place?”

Marvin’s eyes light up like he’s figured out all of the secrets of the universe. “Oh, right!” His face quickly falls. “I actually need a favor.”

Oh. That’s not what Whizzer expected. It’s probably the last thing Whizzer expected. Whizzer more expected Marvin to start slinging slurs.

“Oh,” Whizzer says dumbly. “What do you need?” Immediately after the words leave his mouth, he knows what he should have said. Wow, the Marvin Cohen needs a favor? Or maybe, I never thought I’d see the day that Mr. Marvin oh-so desperately needs something from little ol’ me . Probably the second one. 

But Whizzer didn’t say that, so Marvin responds just as genuinely. “So you know how Hanukkah is coming up?” He asks. 

Whizzer makes up for his lack of sarcasm in his original response when he says: “That does tend to happen in December, yes.”

Marvin gives Whizzer an unimpressed look. “Listen, Hanukkah is about to happen, and because I’ve been working crazy hours on Curtain Call , I want to get my son something…special.”

Ah, right. Curtain Call is the name of Marvin’s TV show with Charlotte. He should probably remember that. “Okay…so how does that involve me?” Whizzer asks. 

“Well, Jason’s a really big Mets fan, so I was wondering if you would like, sign something?” Marvin requests because of course he does. 

He thinks back to his own memories of Hanukkah from childhood. Hanukkah was basically the only time of the year he got to spend eight straight days with his mom (unless Christmas Eve and/or Christmas happened to occur during Hanukkah), and it was always the more fun of the two December holidays. Unlike his hardcore Catholic father, his mother didn’t ever try to force him into embracing the religious aspect of it, so he mostly just appreciated the presents and spending time with his mom. Christmas, on the other hand, felt like constant attempts at conversion presented in the form of expensive presents with Bible verses in the card. 

“Hm,” Whizzer ponders. “That’s a pretty high-quality Hanukkah gift. The most I ever got was like, a medium-sized lego set.”

“Yeah, but your parents weren’t award-winning, famous actors and singers, were they?” Marvin retorts. “Plus, it’s not like I’m gonna buy your signature.”

“Oh, you’re not?”

“I’ll pay you like, at most 20 dollars for it.”

Whizzer could say no. In fact, Whizzer should say no.

“No,” Whizzer says. 

Marvin blinks. “I’m sorry?”

“Why should I? You’ve been nothing but unkind to me since we first met.”

“ I don’t want your signature, asshole, it’s for my fucking ten year old son! Stop being a jackass.”

Whizzer gets an idea. It’s not a great idea, probably not even a good one. But it’s probably mostly funny. 

“Fine,” Whizzer snaps. He’s a little bit drunk, but his plan seems funny enough. He hopes Marvin’s drunk enough to find it funny, too. “You want a signature so bad? Give me a pen.”

Marvin blinks. “Sorry–what? Huh? I–I didn’t mean right now ! I don’t have anything to sign!”

Whizzer ignores him, turning to the nearest person. “Hey, do you have a pen or marker or something?” He asks the stranger.

“Um, I have a Sharpie, I think,” the man responds cautiously, pulling out a classic red Sharpie.

Whizzer snatches it from his hand. “Thank you, sir!” He yells before turning right back to Marvin. 

“Whizzer, I don’t have anything to sign–” Marvin is trying. Whizzer isn’t listening.

Whizzer uncaps the Sharpie, puts it in his mouth (the actual marker part facing out), trying to not think about how unsanitary it is to hold a random person’s random marker in his mouth for the sake of the bit ! He threads his fingers through Marvin’s surprisingly soft and unknotted hair and pulls him close to his own body. Whizzer can see how flustered it is, it’s almost adorable. While Marvin’s caught off guard, he grabs the Sharpie with his right hand and draws a massive W.B. on Marvin’s right cheek.

Marvin looks offended, disgusted, maybe even outraged, but he doesn’t say anything. He just looks up at Whizzer with something just a little stronger than loathing, and Whizzer’s looking at him just the same. Under the club lights, with bad electronic music buzzing faintly in the background, Marvin looks like a mistake waiting to happen.

Something shifts. Or maybe it doesn’t. Whizzer can’t really tell. 

“Um,” both men snap out of the temporary trance at the sound of a female voice. Trina is standing there, hand on her hip. 

Marvin takes a good five, big steps away from Whizzer, making a (mostly) harmless encounter seem way more suspicious. “Um,” he echoes. “Hi there, love!”

Trina stares blankly for a few more moments. “You know what? I’m not gonna bother trying to figure out whatever that was,” she flings her hand around, vaguely pointing at the two of them. She seems a tad bit shitfaced, and from Whizzer’s understanding, that’s rare. “Marv, I’m leaving. Jason’s babysitter is supposed to leave at like 3:30 AM, and it’s 3:15 right now. Are you coming or staying?”

Marvin gives Whizzer a pointed look, not even looking at Trina. “I think I’ll stay.”

iii. 

Whizzer is a little scared to look down to find who’s sucking his cock. 

He genuinely cannot remember. He’s very much wasted right now, and he’s sure the other guy is too if he’s willingly sucking Whizzer off in a club bathroom (single-occupant for some reason, thank god ). He can vaguely remember getting a lot of drinks at the bar with someone, and maybe some singing? The timeline is very vague. 

If he looks down, or even looks in the nearby mirror, he knows. The illusion of anonymous sex is ruined. All he wants is to keep his eyes closed in ignorant bliss, because once he knows who it is, it’s real. He can feel deep in his soul he’ll probably have to shove this person off because it’d be a huge mistake, blah blah blah. If he can’t see it, it’s not real. Or something. Because god does it feel good, and he really, really doesn’t want it to end. 

Whizzer doesn’t want to look down because he fears the man is actually a woman and Whizzer is just extremely drunk and can’t tell the difference. He doesn’t want to look down because he fears the man has leprosy or herpes or something. He doesn’t want to look down because he fears that it’s some crazy, creepy stalker fan. He doesn’t want to look down because he fears it’s some closet case celebrity and he doesn’t really want to have to keep that secret. 

He goes to rest his head in his hands, just for a moment, but he notices something on his right palm. Red streaks. 

He knows immediately. 

There’s smeared red Sharpie on his hand and he just knows . Whizzer just knows, deep down in his soul, that there’s only one place it could’ve come from, that he wasn’t that sloppy with the marker when he used it. 

Whizzer doesn’t have to look down to know that the signature on Marvin’s right cheek is completely smudged and illegible. Whizzer also doesn’t have to look down to know that he’s not gonna even attempt to stop him.

Chapter Text

Sunday, December 22nd, 2024

Whizzer’s Apartment, Manhattan

The typical Sunday for Whizzer goes as follows:

1. Sleep in until at least 11. Noon is also acceptable. 

This is key to starting the day off right. Sundays are the one day of the week during the offseason (excluding holidays, obviously) he can do nothing. He’s almost never scheduled anything on Sundays because it’s a little difficult to tell if he’ll want to talk to anyone. Or if his hangover will be manageable by the time the plans come along, which brings him to Step Two:

     2. Deal with the hangover. 

Charlotte and especially Cordelia love to hang out with Whizzer on Friday nights. On Friday nights, they know how to control themselves, and more importantly, Whizzer. 

Whizzer would like to think of himself as a social drinker, but he can acknowledge his drinking habits are a little too sporadic, desperate, and extreme to be classified as such. Rather than I drink a beer or two in social situations, it’s closer to, I am stone cold sober Monday through Thursday, but by the time Friday night comes along, I’m about FourFiveSeconds from wildin’ if I don’t drink some alcohol right this moment. Charlotte and Cordelia are good at sometimes limiting Whizzer to a small amount of alcohol, or more commonly, controlling his actions when he’s just a little bit drunk. 

(Most) Saturdays, however, Whizzer drinks alone. Well, maybe alone isn’t the right word. He’s usually surrounded by other people—but no one really understands his Baseballer Lifestyle in these tiny gay bars in Manhattan, which is both the most isolating and most unalienating experience. It can be nice to pretend to be the same as other people. real people, but mostly it just emphasizes the giant, human-connection shaped hole in his heart that’s only properly satiated once a week when he gets to see his best friend that he met in a random elevator. Thoughts like those lead him to the third and final step of Sundays with Whizzer Brown:

     3. Sort it out.

 Being Whizzer Brown isn’t as easy as people think–it takes a toll on one's mental health to be so effortlessly funny and charming. He would talk to a therapist, but he’s found that having his own day of rest is far more beneficial. Talking things out isn’t really his thing—he’d much prefer to stare at himself in the mirror and shut his brain off. Whizzer is pro-therapy for other people, but he understands that he’s naturally very defensive and he doesn’t really want to burden someone with trying to figure him out—especially if it’s not broken, don’t fix it. Whizzer is fine. He doesn’t need therapy, not yet at least, so why waste an hour of a therapist’s time? If he needs it, he likes to think he’ll be able to recognize it. 

(When Whizzer thinks like this, his chest fills up and he can’t breathe all that well because he knows it doesn’t make all that much sense. He knows thoughts like these are why he should, actually, go to therapy. Whizzer’s not one for denial, but he does quite enjoy knowing the truth and still procrastinating and shoving it away. Whizzer doesn’t need a proper therapist or psychiatric professional because he doesn’t really feel like it.)

So, Whizzer turns on Succession or The Bachelor and lets his mind rot to a peaceful nothingness. Today, he’s decided on Too Hot To Handle , but it’s so infuriating he has to turn it off after an episode and a half and scroll on his secret TikTok account. 

That is, until Cordelia texts him. 

cordelia

13:45>>whizzer

13:45>>whizzer

13:46>>respond buddy

sorry it took me 20 seconds to open the messages app<<13:46

calm down my friend<<13:46

13:46>>fuck u too ig 

13:46>>nvm the nice thing i was gonna do

oh shit there’s you were gonna do something for me<<13:47

im so sorry my darlingest cordelia<<13:47

what is it that you wish to do for me<<13:47

13:47>>ok well

13:48>>it’s not THAT interesting

13:48>>so yk how we usually spend christmas together

no cordelia i had no idea we did that<<13:48

of course i know that<<13:48

13:48>>ok there’s no need to do rude

13:48>>nice thing remember????

ahh yes forgot i might be getting something out of this<<13:48

carry on<<13:49

13:49>>well this year the first day of hanukkah and christmas are on the same day

13:49>>and char and i wanted to invite our friends over for dinner to celebrate !!

13:50>>and i am inviting you because of what you said last night

13:50>>two for one special

what about me as one of your closest friends??<<13:50

13:50>>that too ig

Whizzer had not been expecting an invite to Cordelia and Charlotte’s apartment. Charlotte prefers to keep him as far away from there as possible because the few times he has been, something has ended up broken (not to any fault of Whizzer, of course, just bad luck and coincidences that Charlotte took as a sign to keep him far far away). Usually, he’d jump at the chance to spend holiday dinner with them, but the reason he was being invited was actually the reason he could not go. 

Hanukkah was an important holiday in adult-Whizzer’s life, maybe even more so than when he was a kid. Ever since he left his mom in the rural Midwest to go to UC Irvine, he would come back and spend all of Hanukkah with her. Due to D1 college baseball requirements, it was hard to find a long period of time where he could be out of Los Angeles, even when school was technically out for a break. But he always, always managed for Hanukkah. Well, until D1 at UC Irvine turned into Triple A for the Mets’ minor league team , then it became half. By the time he got up to the Major Leagues, he could only really afford to take off one day to be with his mother. It makes that one day a year more special, he tells himself, but that doesn’t do much to keep away floods of guilt every time he sees his mother’s eyes, filled with temporary joy, go back to the tired ones he sees in the occasional picture after he tells her he has to leave. 

Oh, she always says. I thought that maybe this year, you could figure out a way to stay just one day more. I would’ve never signed you up for Little League if I knew this is how it would turn out for me! She always adds a forced laugh at the end, like she isn’t trying to guilt him into staying. Like she’s unaware of how it keeps him up on the red eye flight back to New York City. 

So, he texts back:

cordelia you know this, i have hanukkah with my mom every year<<13:52

it’s a very long standing family tradition<<13:52

13:52>>fuck

13:52>>i was hoping you’d forget about that and you’d say yes and then you’d be contractually obligated to show up

13:52>>you have foiled my dastardly plan

you need to get better at being evil<<13:53

that was a pretty lame attempt not gonna lie<<13:53

4/10?<<13:53

13:53>>screw u whizzer brown

13:53>>im gonna invite my real friends that actually care about me

13:53>>u are so fake

love you too cordelia<<13:54

also this is like super late notice you’re gonna struggle to find people to come to this thing<<13:54

13:54>>you’re just jealous you’re not going

13:54>>i’m revoking your invite anyway so don’t even THINK about crawling back. 

Whizzer shuts off his phone and turns back on Too Hot to Handle. Maybe that show isn’t too insufferable after all. 

As he half pays attention, he thinks about what Cordelia said about last night. Two for one special. He doesn’t really remember saying that, but that’s probably more to do with his memory than his level of drunkenness. Whizzer honestly thinks that blackouts are propaganda from the government to keep people from drinking a reckless amount, because he has never gotten blackout drunk before, no matter how hard he’s tried. And has he tried. He can’t remember every word he said, sure, but that’s how he is when he wakes up on even his sober mornings. He always at least has a broad sense of what happened the previous day.

This, of course, means that he has a pretty clear memory of the rest of the night. The part with…

He doesn’t even want to think his name. It’s repulsive, really. It’s fitting that the…encounter occurred in a gross club bathroom, because it’s a sign from a divine power that any sexual chemistry is dirty, disgusting, and crude. 

Whizzer is past being surprised whenever it turns out a new celebrity is actually a closeted homosexual (or at least some form of closeted). The general public thinks that the occasional blind items about Broadway star number 657 are the interesting ones, but blind items are open secrets. Whizzer is more interested in the ones that will never be picked up by the paparazzi. 

(Fellow athletes are the major exception to this rule. To be honest, one of the largest downsides to being an openly gay professional athlete is every self-obsessed straight athlete—teammate and opponent alike—thinking that he is extremely sexually and romantically attracted to them specifically. About a quarter of those times, it’s actually a self-obsessed closeted athlete. He’s learned to clock it immediately after being sat down for far too many just-to-be-clear-it’s-not-me talks in locker rooms. With straight men, they’ll fight a smile and the tension in their shoulders will disappear. With closeted men, they force a smile and the barely noticeable tension never leaves. It’s exhausting and became uninteresting after the ninth time it happened.)

Marv— He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named was very intriguing to him. Not out of any interest in pursuing an actual relationship or even a round two (despite that blowjob being pretty damn good, Marvin is still insufferable and disgusting. Hard pass), but because of the psychological implications. Whizzer’s no psychiatrist, but Marvin’s naturally defensive nature makes so much more sense when thinking of it as repression-fueled. It’s fascinating—talk about someone who needs a therapist. 

All of that being said, Whizzer fucking hates Marvin and hates himself for letting Marvin blow him. It was a mistake on all accounts, and will never happen again if not because of Whizzer, then because of Marvin being far too repressed and far too married to allow it to happen again. At least with the same person twice. 

Now that’s an interesting question. How many gay sexual encounters has Marvin had? Two, four, twelve, more? Whizzer isn't interested in a perverse way, more a genuine curiosity of just how much Marvin allows himself to get away with.

Oh well. Whatever. Officially (and in reality), he and Marvin still hate each other and will likely only see each other on television and at the occasional party Cordelia and Charlotte mistakenly invite them both to. Whizzer’s free to speculate guilt-free, as if he were a regular fan. 

Whizzer decides to stop thinking about his less-than-enemy’s sexuality and focus back on Too Hot to Handle . Bad idea. His vision blurs and his head starts to pound. Oh right, he’s a little bit hungover. He blinks away the pain before looking back up and watching for who knows how long. 

As he’s watching, he feels his phone vibrate against his side. 

mom

14:37>>Hey Whizzer, bad news. My boyfriend Harry (you remember Harry, right?) surprised me with a trip backpacking through Peru for two weeks! Unfortunately, the only flight available is on the 25th, so we can’t have our annual Hanukkah day this year :(. I’d offer to pay you back for your plane ticket, but with all of that baseball money I probably need the money more than you, haha! Sorry about the inconvenience, can we reschedule to January maybe?

Whizzer’s heart drops. Fuck. He—he doesn’t know what he feels, actually. He’s just sort of…empty. No, that’s not accurate. He’s so full of conflicting emotions it all neutralizes into an uncomfortable nothingness. 

ok<<14:42 

Because he has nothing left to say. 

cordelia

hey…<<15:01

so.<<15:01

about that revoked invite…<<15:01

15:13>>well well well

15:13>>look who’s come crawling back. 

my mom is busy<<15:14

so guess what! i’m free!<<15:14

give me my invite back?<<15:14

15:14>>hmmmm

15:14>>fine. just bc all of my other friends are busy

15:14>>so you are officially agreeing to come no matter what???

are you kidding me???<<15:15

15:15>>nope. i need confirmation.

fine.<<15:15

i promise to go to your stupid ass dinner no matter what.<<15:15

15:16>>HA

15:16>>you’re gonna regret that!

oh god<<15:16

what did i just agree to<<15:16

15:17>>nothing i didn’t say before

15:17>>it’s just

15:17>>the only other guests we’ve gotten to come are the Friedman-Cohens!

Fuck you, Cordelia Campbell. 

fuck you, cordelia campbell.<<15:20