Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Pugsley isn't smart.

He knows this.

He didn’t care.

Probably why he was about to do something most people wouldn’t which was visit a serial killer in prison.

Not just any serial killer. The one who tried to kill his sister. Good on the guy, honestly.

Pugsley had been trying to get close to Wednesday in all kinds of messed-up ways for years, and all he’d managed was a few broken bones and one emergency room visit. So, yeah. Tyler Galpin had the upper hand. And Pugsley was kind of impressed.

Pugsley liked serial killers.

Not the scary “don’t go outside” kind, more like artists with messy hobbies.

His family always encouraged embracing less-than-savory pastimes like stabbing things or, y’know, killing people, so he didn’t get why Wednesday was so pressed about Tyler trying to kill her.

Honestly, what’s the big deal if someone dies? It just adds to the bigger picture, the grand tapestry of the killed. It’d be way worse if they only killed one person—then it looks personal. That’s when you know it’s a cry for attention, not a masterpiece. Tyler? He was painting murals.

Since he was a baby, Pugsley has known one important fact: aim to kill.
So he knows what kills. He knows who kills. And he knows why to kill.

Most people, when they think about killers, imagine scary monsters hiding under their beds or running wild in the streets.
But Pugsley?
He thinks of killers like artists. Craftsmen with a special kind of messy skill.

Like Jeffrey Dahmer, who didn’t just kill people, but ate them. He wasn’t sloppy, he planned, curated and made his own meal out of the corpse instead of letting them go to waste.
That takes dedication.

Then there’s the Zodiac Killer, who turned murder into a puzzle. Leaving coded messages, making the police chase shadows and ghosts. It wasn’t just killing.
No.
It was performance art.

And Ed Gein? The original nightmare decorator. Who else could make a whole wardrobe out of skin and call it fashion? That’s commitment to the craft, right there.

Pugsley knows some killers are just sad losers who died quietly in their beds, no fanfare, no legacy. Those people are basically ghosts, forgotten because they didn’t do enough damage. If you’re gonna die, you gotta make it count.

Killing one person? That’s just a cry for attention. Killing many? That’s a statement. A legacy. A scream into the void that says, “I was here, and I mattered.” Plus, Pugsley figures it’s way easier to throw a party if everyone’s already dead then theres fewer gatecrashers and more space to dance.

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

The dorm was way too clean. Like, suspiciously clean. Pugsley wasn’t used to this. Back at home, Lurch made sure the place got a fresh coat of dust and cobwebs every morning like it was some kind of sacred ritual. But here? The floor was almost spotless. No mysterious sticky spots. No suspicious blood marks. No new layers of grime. Pugsley felt like something was missing. Like a cake without frosting.

How was anyone supposed to feel at home without a little chaos? Eugene seemed to love the place, but Pugsley was already plotting how to fix it ,maybe a little paint, some blood, and definitely some dust bunnies. Gotta keep the vibe alive.

Speaking of Eugene, he was was buzzing like always—like a tiny angry drone trapped in a human suit.

Pugsley sometimes thought Eugene might actually be a bee pretending to be a person. Not that it mattered. Bees were cool. He figured Eugene probably stung people on purpose when no one was looking.

“You know,” Pugsley said, plopping down on his bed, “if I had wings, I’d just fly away from all this boring stuff and maybe crash a few weddings for fun.” Eugene blinked slowly, probably deciding if he should run or just sting Pugsley right then and there.

“Anyway,” Pugsley added with a grin, “I’m going to visit Tyler today.”

Eugene looked at Pugsley like he’d just exploded his beehive ; which, by the way, was rude. He only did that to hornets. Hornets deserved it. They stung so good.

“WHY, IN ALL THAT IS UNNATURAL, WOULD YOU VISIT TYLER?” Eugene screeched, hands flying around like he was trying to swat ghosts.

Pugsley blinked at him, all calm curiosity. Huh. That was a long scream. Kind of reminded him of Uncle Fester’s ex-wives when he fed them live spiders. Maybe Eugene was hungry. Should he gift him some spiders? Tarantulas were hard to wrap, but worth the effort if the bonding potential was high enough. Yeah. Eugene was warming up to him. Slowly. Like a microwave.

Pugsley smiled at Eugene like a spider — just how Uncle Fester taught him — all eight metaphorical legs of affection curling up at once. Then he walked out, humming something that sounded suspiciously like a funeral march played backwards.

Eugene stood frozen in the middle of the too-clean dorm, eyes glassy with regret. A single tear welled up as he whispered to absolutely no one, “Why do I keep getting involved with the Addams siblings?”

-----------

The bus ride to prison was surprisingly chill.
Getting out of Nevermore was even easier than he expected. All he had to do was say “I’m conducting an independent study on the criminal mind,” and the teacher supervising breakfast duty (Coach Limburger, who hadn’t blinked since 2014) just grunted and waved him out the door. No questions. Not even when he signed himself out using crayon and the name “Wednesday Addams, Esq.”

People really didn’t pay enough attention.

Pugsley loved buses. So many strangers packed in one metal coffin on wheels. He’d brought snacks, obviously ; a Ziploc bag of assorted bones (don’t ask), a single dill pickle, and one tarot card he found in the fireplace. Death, reversed.

He took it as a sign.

Pugsley wore his usual outing outfit: striped shirt, combat boots and a ski mask. Not because he wanted to rob anyone, he just got cold ears. And this was what he usually wore when shopping with Cousin Itt. It made him feel festive.

Unfortunately, the other passengers didn’t know that.

The moment he stepped on the bus, an old lady clutched her purse like he was about to steal her soul.

A teenager dropped his phone.

The driver paused halfway through punching his ticket and said, “...You good, kid?”

Pugsley just held up a dead flower and beamed under the mask. “For you.”
The driver took it. Probably out of fear.
“Cool,” Pugsley added. “This is my first time visiting a serial killer who isn't related to me. Kind of a big day.”

He strolled to the back of the bus while people pretended not to watch him, unbothered as always.

His snack bag (bones, one pickle, one tarot card) sat neatly in his lap. He chewed thoughtfully and stared out the window.

So many people. So many potential victims. So many missed opportunities.

Halfway through the trip, he realized he hadn’t told anyone where he was going. “Oops,” he mumbled, then immediately moved on. “Maybe I’ll be declared missing. That’ll spice up the week.”

He tried to make conversation with the guy next to him. “Hey, what do you think a murderer smells like? I bet it’s a mix of old books and meat.” The guy moved seats. Rude.

Pugsley didn’t mind. He spent most of the ride staring out the window, narrating little murder scenarios in his head like nature documentaries.
“Here we see the lone jogger… unaware of the predator watching from the shadows… probably a Gemini.”

As the bus pulled into Jericho Correctional Facility, Pugsley pressed his face against the glass with all the glee of a kid arriving at Disneyland.

The building was tall and grey and hopeless-looking. It was perfect. He pulled a friendship bracelet out of his pocket, the one he made special. It had tiny black beads that spelled “HIDEY.”

He giggled. It terrified him.

This was going to be so much fun.

Then bus drove right past the prison.

Pugsley tilted his head. Huh. That was unexpected.

He hadn’t actually told the driver where he was going, come to think of it. He just assumed the ski mask, the dead flower, and the sentence “I’m going to see a serial killer” would do the heavy lifting.

Apparently not.

He glanced around. No one else seemed concerned. Then again, they were all actively avoiding eye contact with him.

Fair.

So, naturally, he stood up, grabbed the emergency fire extinguisher off the wall, and smashed the window open like it was a polite suggestion. Glass rained down onto the side of the road.

Then, without a word, he climbed onto the seat, took a breath, and launched himself out the window.

He landed like a sack of confused bones on the grass with a dramatic “oof.” A few bus passengers screamed. One woman fainted. The driver swerved a little and kept going. Nobody stopped him.

Pugsley pushed himself up, brushing grass off his hoodie. His left foot felt lighter than it should’ve. He looked down.

Shoe grenade: missing.

He turned just in time to see it rolling along the road behind the bus like a little metal beetle—before it exploded in a glorious fireball that sent trash and a road sign flying.

Pugsley blinked, then smiled softly to himself. “Nice.”

And with that, he dusted himself off, adjusted his ski mask, and walked calmly toward the prison gates like a man with a purpose.

Pugsley stood in front of the towering steel gates of Jericho Correctional Facility like he was about to conquer a theme park, not a maximum-security prison. The air smelled like concrete and bad decisions.

Perfect.

He adjusted his ski mask (because cold ears are cold ears, okay?) and strutted up to the check-in desk, where a bored guard barely looked up from his clipboard.

“Visitor,” Pugsley announced cheerfully.

The guard blinked. “Name?”

“Pugsley Addams. Here to see Tyler,” he said like it was the most normal thing in the world.

The guard’s eyes narrowed. “Tyler? Tyler who?”
Pugsley grinned, “Tyler the serial killer. You know, the guy who almost offed my sister? Big fan.”

The guard’s pen hovered over the paper like it might flee. “You sure you’re on the list?”
Pugsley leaned in conspiratorially. “Lists are overrated.”

Behind the guard, a camera zoomed in on Pugsley’s ski mask. Somewhere, a loudspeaker buzzed, “Security breach? Maybe?”
Pugsley ignored it, whistling happily. “I brought him a friendship bracelet.”

The guard sighed, rubbed his temples, and reluctantly handed over a visitor’s badge. “Go through that door. No funny business.”
Pugsley saluted, “No promises,” and pushed forward, ready for whatever twisted welcome Tyler had in store.

The waiting room smelled like stale coffee and regret. Plastic chairs lined up in neat rows, all of them too stiff to be comfortable and too clean to be homey.

Pugsley plopped down in one with a loud thud, dragging his legs out long enough to nearly touch the chair in front of him. He smiled like he was at a party.

Around him, other visitors stared. Some whispered. Some kept their distance. One lady nervously clutched a handbag shaped like a cat’s head and shot Pugsley a look that clearly said, “Please don’t kill me.”

Pugsley caught her eye and gave a thumbs-up.

A guard paced slowly nearby, clearly regretting this whole visitor thing. Eugene would have been losing his mind, pacing back and forth like a trapped bee, but Eugene wasn’t here. Eugene was probably somewhere doing... whatever bees do when they’re stressed.

Pugsley pulled out the friendship bracelet — the one that spelled “HIDEY” — and twisted it around his fingers.
He wondered if Tyler would like it.
Maybe Tyler would think Pugsley was cool. Maybe he’d finally have a friend who didn’t mind his murder hobbies.
Or maybe Tyler would just try to kill him on sight. That’d be fine too. Pugsley was ready either way.

The door creaked open, and in stepped Tyler — all sharp angles and cold eyes, like a shark who just found out someone stole his favorite chew toy. He scanned the room and locked onto Pugsley instantly.

Tyler blinked and looked at the guard who just shrugged and walked of.

“Didn’t expect a toddler,” Tyler said, voice confused.

Pugsley grinned like he’d just won a prize. “I’m not a toddler. I’m your biggest fan.”.”

Tyler blinked again. If only lurch could blink like Tyler instead of just letting flies land on his eyes.

Tyler stepped forward and held out his hand for a handshake, eyes sharp and calculating.

Pugsley grabbed it eagerly — and zap! Electricity shot through Tyler’s fingers.

Pugsley grinned beneath his ski mask. “Oh, that? That’s for my family’s hand. Thing.”

Tyler rubbed his hand, narrowing his eyes before coming to a slow realisation. “Wait… are you Fester’s kid?”

Pugsley smirked. “Nah, I’m his nephew.”

Tyler’s eyes flickered, the unspoken meaning hanging heavy in the air.
“…So, you’re Wednesday’s brother?” he said slowly.
Pugsley just smiled wider, like he was letting Tyler stew in it.

Chapter Text

Pugsley slouched in his chair, his legs sprawled out so far they nearly touched the cold metal table in front of him.

The visitation room was painfully sterile, like someone had gone out of their way to suck all the personality out of it. White walls. White floors. A fluorescent light flickering above, casting a sickly glow over everything. There wasn’t even a proper chair in sight ,just these weird plastic things that looked like they were made for someone to sit in while getting interrogated, not... whatever this was.

Pugsley shifted uncomfortably, the chair squeaking in protest. He wasn’t used to sitting so still. Or so clean.

He scratched at his shirt, wondering when the last time anyone bothered to put a layer of dust over the floor. Back home, Lurch made sure the place had at least some character to it, even if that character was mostly spider webs. This? This felt like the kind of place you’d go if you wanted to erase your soul.

A guard shuffled by the door, clicking his pen absentmindedly. Pugsley stared at him for a beat, then let his eyes drift back to the walls. They didn’t even have a good story. No cracks. No weird stains. The walls were just... there. Just waiting for someone to do something, anything, to make them feel like they belonged in a place like this.

Tyler's voice cut through the silence, too loud in the small room. "Did Wednesday send you?"

Pugsley blinked, his gaze snapping from the wall to Tyler like he was waking up from a trance. He rolled his eyes so hard he almost gave himself whiplash.

"Y'know, I can like, do something without it being under Wednesday's influence, bro," Pugsley shot back, the words dripping with annoyance. "It's so annoying how everyone always goes to her like she's the only one who matters in the family."

He slouched back further in his chair, crossing his arms as if the conversation was already boring him. "Like, I can have my own ideas, you know. Just 'cause I am her brother doesn't mean I can't, I dunno, make my own decisions."

Tyler shifted slightly in his chains, clearly trying to relax, which, honestly, Pugsley thought was kind of funny. The chains looked uncomfortable, but something about them reminded Pugsley of his bed back home—he had these nice, heavy ones for when he needed a little... stability.
It wasn’t as bad as people thought.

He missed them sometimes.

“Alright, so your little prison trip’s an act of rebellion, huh?” Tyler asked, the chains jingling as he shifted again.

Pugsley gave him a long, appraising look. “Nah, not really. My family loves prison. It’s where my mom had her bridal shower. Real charming, right? Honestly, an act of rebellion would be like... going Girl Scouting or something.” He shuddered dramatically. “And even I’m not brave enough for that.”

Tyler blinked, clearly trying to process the idea of a bridal shower in prison and then Girl Scouts of all things. Pugsley could practically see the little question marks hovering above his head.

“I know you Addams are fucked in the head, but I did try to kill your sister,” Tyler shot back, a strange sort of challenge in his voice.

Pugsley just shrugged. “Yeah, well, she can be... a lot,” he said with a grin. “Honestly, she’s got the personality of a cactus and the charm of a serial killer.”

Tyler’s lips curled into a wry smile, the kind that made Pugsley feel like he was being sized up by a predatory animal.

“You sure you're not just here because you wanna watch me squirm?" Tyler’s voice lowered, trying to probe, maybe even bait Pugsley into something. "Or do you like that I tried to kill your sister?”

Pugsley tilted his head, pretending to think about it. He didn’t even need to ask himself the question. There was no hesitation.

“Well, I mean, it wasn’t the worst thing she’s been through," he said casually, like he was picking his nails or inspecting his shoe. “She spends all her time investigating murders, might as well get a personal one for the collection. Plus, you know, she's got that whole 'come at me, bro' vibe.”

Tyler blinked again, as if trying to figure out whether Pugsley was being genuine or just completely insane. The silence between them stretched, and Pugsley could feel the tension building. It was like a slow, deliberate burn.

"You Addams are messed up, you know that?" Tyler said, his voice condescending.

Pugsley leaned back in his chair, nodding thoughtfully. "Yeah, but that's what makes us fun."

Tyler leaned back, his chains scraping against the floor like an ominous soundtrack to their conversation. “I’m gonna be real with you, Addams,” he muttered, eyes narrowing. “You’re acting like this is some kind of joke. I tried to kill your sister, you know.”

Pugsley raised an eyebrow, flicking a speck of dust off his sleeve. “Tried? Yeah, big difference between trying and actually pulling it off. I mean, where’s the fun in trying, huh? That’s like drawing a stick figure and calling it a masterpiece. If you’re gonna kill someone, at least make it a good kill.”

Tyler’s eyes widened a bit at the nonchalant tone. “What the hell’s wrong with you, man?”

“Oh, nothing,” Pugsley said, popping his knuckles like he was getting comfortable. “I’m just vibing with the whole ‘serial killer chic’ thing you’ve got going on. It's very... minimalist.” He gestured to Tyler’s chains.

“I love the accessories by the way. Very ‘prison couture.’”

Tyler blinked at him, unsure whether to laugh or punch him. “You’re seriously talking about my sister’s life like it’s some... art project?”

Pugsley shrugged, lips curling into a grin. “Hey, look, if you’re gonna kill people, make it count. One person? Big whoop. It’s just a footnote. But if you kill enough people? Now you’ve got a legacy. That’s how you end up with a Wikipedia page. Trust me, my family’s all about the legacy.”

Tyler’s face hardened. “You’re sick, man.”

Pugsley’s eyes lit up. “I know, right? It’s a family tradition! Honestly, if I didn’t have this much darkness inside me, I’d be bored out of my mind. I’d probably take up birdwatching or something equally mundane.”

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.

“But seriously, Tyler, you did try to kill my sister, and that’s a bit tacky. I mean, there are rules to these things, y’know? Wednesday’s a tough audience.”

Tyler’s nostrils flared, the anger bubbling up again. “You don’t get it, do you?”

Pugsley’s grin only grew wider, if possible. “No, I totally get it.. We’re all just expressing ourselves. You with your murderous impulses, and me with... whatever I’m doing. I respect the hustle, Tyler. You’ve got a vision.”

Tyler shifted in his seat, rattling his chains as he tried to process this bizarre interaction. “What do you want from me, huh? You just here for a laugh?”
Pugsley’s face softened, a little too dramatically.

“Nah, man. I’m just here to appreciate the work. Art, y’know? It’s hard to find people who get that.”

Tyler stared at him, his jaw clenching. “You’re insane.”

Pugsley let out a little laugh, tapping his fingers against the table. “Insane? Nah, I just prefer things with a little flair. You know what’s insane? A world where everyone follows the rules. Boring. Like, what’s the point of living if you’re not going to at least throw a party with the dead bodies of your
enemies?”

Tyler just stared at him for a long second. Then, after what felt like an eternity, he mumbled, “I don’t even know what the hell to say to you.”

Pugsley leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head like he was lounging at a beach. “That’s okay. Most people don’t. You’ll get used to me.”

Tyler gritted his teeth, trying to shake off the absurdity of this entire interaction. His chains clinked with each movement, a reminder that, no matter how weird this kid was, Tyler was still stuck here with no way out.

“No, I really won’t,” he said slowly, drawing the words out like he was speaking to a toddler. “You’re just some freaky little punk who thinks the world’s a joke. This isn’t some twisted family reunion for you. This is real. I tried to kill your sister. Tried to end her life, and you’re sitting here treating it like—what? Like a bad joke?”

Pugsley cocked his head, genuinely considering it. “Hmm... not a bad joke, per se. It’s more of an... abstract piece, y’know? Like, something you find in an old, haunted museum, right next to a haunted vase that curses you if you look at it too long.”

Tyler stared at him, eyebrows furrowed in frustration, his jaw clenched so hard it could’ve snapped. “You’re unreal,” he muttered under his breath.

Pugsley, meanwhile, was caught up in his own little world. He couldn’t help but notice how Tyler’s chains rattled when he moved. They were big. Heavy. Clunky. He bet they’d make an awesome weapon if you had to fight a bear or maybe a really aggressive chair. Or—wait, what if his new electric abilities could set off a bomb? He could probably build one out of these chains and some random prison supplies. They always had spare dynamite laying around in movies.

Probably. Maybe.

Not that he wanted to bomb the place. He was more of a tactical explosion kind of guy. The kind where you only blow stuff up when it’s really necessary.

Maybe. Probably.

His mental wanderings were cut short when Tyler continued. “I’m not some ‘art project,’ kid,” Tyler said, voice low and angry. “I don’t care about your twisted, sick, Addams-logic. This is my life. My choices. And if you think you can just waltz in here and treat it like some family field trip, you’ve got another thing coming.”

Pugsley blinked, slowly bringing himself back to the conversation. “Oh, no no no, don’t get me wrong, I’m not ‘treating it’ like a field trip. I’m just saying... you’re definitely the first person in this prison who’s made me want to break out the snacks.”

Tyler shot him a sharp look. “Snacks?”

“Yeah.” Pugsley smiled and pulled out his Ziploc bag of assorted bones and the pickle. “Ever tried a bone sandwich? Great for what ails you. Gets the blood flowing.” He gave Tyler a sideways look. “I’m kidding. Mostly.”

Tyler’s face twitched. “You’re sick, Addams.”

“Thanks, man. That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.” Pugsley flashed a grin, clearly unfazed. “But honestly, I get what you’re saying. You’re tough. You tried to kill my sister. I respect that. But you can’t just ignore the fun of it, man. The enjoyment is what matters.”

Tyler exhaled sharply, leaning back and rolling his eyes. “I don’t even know why I’m still talking to you.”

Pugsley’s eyes gleamed, the thought of “fun” buzzing in his brain.

“I bet if you blew up a bus—oh wait, you’ve probably already done that with your ‘attempted murder’ thing but y'know its a fun thing to do.”

Tyler blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

Pugsley sighed dramatically, leaning forward with exaggerated seriousness. “Well, yeah, that’s all it is. You throw a body in the mix, make it theatrical, and boom, you’ve got yourself a whole museum exhibit. And don’t get me started on the lighting. Lighting’s critical. You can’t just stab someone in a dark corner and expect it to make the right impact.”

Tyler blinked again, like his brain couldn’t keep up with Pugsley’s absurdity. “This is insane.”

Pugsley’s grin only grew wider, eyes glinting with the excitement of being the only one in the room who understood the true meaning behind all this chaos. “Yeah, but insane is way more fun. Trust me, I’ve been around my fair share of insanity. It’s a family tradition.”

Tyler, clearly done with this bizarre conversation, opened his mouth to fire back when they both froze, hearing distant voices in the hallway.

Guards.

They were talking about something—no, someone. Something about a bus, a ski mask, and an explosion. The words filtered through the walls like an ominous hum.

Pugsley’s eyes darted toward the door. He felt his pulse quicken. He couldn’t quite place it, but the excitement in his gut was unmistakable.

The air felt... charged.

His gaze flicked back to Tyler, who was still frozen, not quite catching the weight of the situation.

Then, without a word, Pugsley stood up, adjusting his ski mask like he was heading to an audition. He flashed Tyler one last, wicked grin.

"Guess that’s my cue." And with that, he bolted for the door.

Chapter Text

Pugsley was outta there.

The plan? Well, it wasn’t exactly a plan. More like an extremely optimistic series of impulses that ended with him throwing his hands in the air and declaring,

"Screw it, let's just go for it!"

Who needs a ski mask anyway? That thing was suffocating and honestly, it made his face itch. Plus, it was too much drama for a prison escape. Pugsley wasn’t here to impress anyone.

He wasn’t even sure what he was running from. Sure, there was the whole "being imprisoned in a sterile white hellhole" thing, but he liked the chaos, and right now, things were about to get way more interesting.

As he sprinted down the hallway of the prison, the lights flickering above like they had something to prove, Pugsley couldn't help but comment to no one in particular.

“Who the hell designed this place, anyway? A blind architect with a penchant for, like, forced sterilization?” He scoffed, his voice echoing down the pristine, sterile corridor. “I mean, look at this—white walls, white floors, not a single cracked tooth or dead animal carcass in sight. It’s like the walls are trying to suck the soul right out of you.”

The fluorescent lights buzzed, threatening to give up at any moment. There was something off about the way they flickered, like the entire prison was just barely holding it together. Pugsley could respect that. Everything felt precarious, ready to snap at any second.

He didn’t even have to worry about being caught. Everyone was too busy worrying about the latest murder or whatever drama was going on. They’d never even see him coming.

Heh. Never. More

Nevermore.

His school.

As he approached the exit, he slid around a corner, his shoes squeaking against the floor like a mouse in a tuxedo.

The automatic door to the outside world swung open with a hiss. He could feel the cool air hit his face as he stepped outside, like he'd just crossed over into an...

Umm.

I actually don't know.

Pugsley stopped for a second and looked around, taking in the vast, empty parking lot in front of him. It was a real “waiting for the apocalypse” kind of vibe, especially with the sun barely hanging on the horizon. The buildings around the lot looked like they belonged in a place where people went to not come back.

His eyes darted from side to side, scanning the parking lot for something he could use. A plan wasn’t exactly brewing, but that didn’t bother Pugsley.

A good escape was all about playing it by ear, right?

Right?

And then, of course, there was the car situation.
He took one look at the parking lot and winced. The only cars left were a few sad old sedans, a minivan with more bumper stickers than paint, and—ah, there it was—a beat-up pickup truck. The kind of truck that looked like it had once been a proud vehicle but now was held together by whatever half-baked home repairs someone thought would “do the trick.”

It was beautiful in its own way.

But first, before any real action could take place, Pugsley couldn’t help himself. He stepped closer to the truck, running his fingers along the door handle.

“This thing’s a disaster. No offense to the truck, but it looks like it’s been to the moon and back,” he muttered under his breath, loud enough for the wind to hear. “Like, what even is this color? Rust? Ash? A forgotten dream?”

He took another moment to just appreciate the
wreck. He could practically hear the vehicle groaning in defeat, begging for a new life.

The driver’s side window was cracked open, and a grizzled, burly man with a face that looked like it’d had a fight with every type of hard liquor stared at him as he approached. He had a look on his face that could freeze the air between them.

Pugsley smiled.

“Hey, uh, buddy,” he said, leaning casually against the truck like he belonged there.

“You wouldn’t happen to be heading anywhere near Nevermore, would you? My ride... kinda broke down. Like, super broke down. In the middle of nowhere.” He didn’t bother to look guilty. He wasn’t the one who actually broke anything.He exploded it.

Totalllly different.

The man narrowed his eyes, glancing Pugsley up and down. "You one of them freaks from that school? Addams kid, right?"

Pugsley shrugged. “Addams, huh? Well, yeah, technically. I’m Pugsley. But let’s not focus on labels, alright? I'm just a guy looking for a ride.” He leaned in a little closer, his voice dropping to an almost conspiratorial tone.“I mean, it’s not like I fit in anywhere else, right? This whole... ‘outcast’ thing has really been overhyped.”

The man squinted at him suspiciously. Pugsley gave him a wide, innocent grin, the kind that made you wonder just how much he wasn’t saying.

“Nevermore, huh?” The man grumbled, rubbing his stubbled chin. “I got no love for people like you. You know what they say about your kind, right?”

Pugsley, feeling an itch to stir things up, played along. “Oh, yeah? What do they say?” He couldn’t resist. He had to.

The man snorted. “Your family’s all weird and messed up. You people don’t belong in regular society. You ever see the way your sister walks around, looking down on us normal people?” He shook his head as if the thought alone disgusted him.

Pugsley’s grin grew wider. He wasn’t even trying to hide the joy in his voice now. “Oh yeah, Wednesday's got some self centered teen angst thing going on. Its annoying. But, uh, back to me. I really just need to get out of here. Like, I really don’t wanna be stuck in this place. Ever again.” He waved his hand around, gesturing to the prison behind him.

Technically a lie but who cares.

The man just stared at him, his eyes narrowing as he reached for the door handle.
“Alright, whatever. Get in. But no funny business.”
“Not a peep,” Pugsley said, sliding into the passenger seat like he was on a vacation. “I’m just here for the ride.”

As the engine revved up, Pugsley sank back into the seat, feeling a small rush of excitement. He just did a prison escape.

Uncle fester would be proud

The old truck rattled along the cracked highway, the engine coughing like it’d swallowed a bag of gravel. The driver, a grizzled man who looked like he’d been scowling since birth, gripped the wheel like it owed him his last dime. His eyes were narrow slits of pure annoyance. Beside him, Pugsley lounged like he was on a lazy Sunday, head bobbing slightly, half in the world, half somewhere else.

“You know,” the driver started, voice rough and sharp as broken glass, “I don’t like your kind. Freaks. Outcasts. The whole damn bunch of you.”

Pugsley barely blinked.

“Always gotta be special, don’t you? Like the world’s got to give you a medal for being all weird and spooky.”

The driver’s voice went up a notch, full-on rant mode.

“You think you’re better than everyone else? Lurking in the shadows, acting like you own the place? It’s pathetic. I’ve seen your kind, wreckin’ things, goin’ on those crazy killing sprees, and for what? Because you’re different? Because you don’t fit in?”

Pugsley’s eyes glazed over. He wasn’t really listening. His mind was on something way more important.

Zombies.

Like, slurp. He really misses that guy.

Pugsley imagined a zombie standing in the middle of a sidewalk, mouth hanging open, a big beetle buzzing by. The zombie blinked, confused, then chomped down on the beetle’s shiny shell with a
loud crunch.

He chuckled quietly to himself.

The driver’s voice cut through the quiet like a chainsaw.

“Your kind don’t care ‘bout anyone else. You’re a plague, a curse. You spread chaos wherever you go. I’ve heard the stories — blood on the walls, bodies left in the street. No remorse, no guilt. Just destruction.”

Pugsley nodded, barely interested. In his head, the zombie scene shifted.

Now the zombies were trying to catch flies. One zombie tried to smack a fly buzzing around its head, but missed every time, swatting the air like a dumb kid playing a game. Another one accidentally slapped its own rotten face instead, groaning in confusion.

He imagined the zombies having little “bug parties,” where they all gathered to eat whatever creepy crawlies they could find. Like a weird bug potluck.

“Your kind,” the driver ranted on, voice rising, “are nothing but monsters in disguise. No morals, no rules. Just freaks who think the world owes ‘em something. Well, news flash kid, it don’t.”

Pugsley yawned inwardly but stayed polite.
In his head, the zombies were now trying to eat candy. A zombie bit into a lollipop and got super confused when it didn’t taste like brains. Another one tried to suck on a gummy worm, but it slipped out of its mouth, falling onto the dusty ground.
The driver’s rant sounded like white noise to him now.

“You think you’re special?” the man sneered. “You’re just broken people playing dress-up. And the worst part? You think you’re scary.”

Pugsley grinned.

In his mind, zombies were the clumsiest monsters ever. One tried to open a door but just kept pushing it the wrong way. Another got tangled up in a bunch of vines and ended up tripping over its own feet.

“Freaks like you,” the driver growled, “should be locked up and thrown away. The world would be better off without you.”

Pugsley shrugged and thought, wait no Eugene doesn't like it when I eat bug so he probably wouldn't like zombies eating them either.

Dang it.

The driver slammed his fist on the wheel, making the truck lurch sideways.

“You’re dangerous,” the driver spat, eyes burning. “Not ‘cause of what you can do, but ‘cause of who you are. I’d burn every last one of you if I could.”

Pugsley blinked and thought about what zombies would do if they caught fire. Probably run around in panic, waving their arms like idiots, maybe knocking over stuff and setting more fires.

He almost laughed out loud.

The driver’s voice dropped to a threatening growl.
“You’re all the same — no remorse, no shame. Just freaks who don’t care if the whole damn world burns.”

Pugsley stared out the window, eyes dreamy.
He pictured a zombie tripping over a squirrel and falling flat on its face. The squirrel just stared and then darted off with a twitchy tail.

The driver grunted, voice thick with anger and disgust.

“You wanna know why the world hates you? ‘Cause you’re dangerous. You’re the unknown. The stuff nightmares are made of.”

Pugsley smiled softly, imagining a zombie scared of a butterfly fluttering by. The zombie tried to catch it, but it flew away, leaving the zombie grunting confusedly.

“You’re not scary,” Pugsley thought. “You’re just dumb and hungry.”

The driver slammed on the brakes, the truck skidding to a stop at the side of the road. He shot Pugsley a look that could freeze lava.

Oh he forgot to use his inside voice didn't he.

“You think you’re clever? You’re not. You’re a liability. And I’m stuck giving you a ride.”

Pugsley shrugged and thought about what zombies might do if they had to hitch rides. Probably moan a lot and drool everywhere.

"Damn. Sorry bruh."

The driver snarled but said nothing, punching the gas and sending the truck back onto the highway.
Pugsley leaned his head against the window, eyes half-lidded, lost again in his goofy zombie daydreams.

He imagined zombies trying to use cell phones, banging their rotten fingers on the screens, getting frustrated.

"Damn freak. The world would do better with one less of you"the driver grunted as he reached for something below his seat.

Pugsley barely had time to register the gleam of the blade before it lunged toward his side. The sharp jab surprised him, the cold bite of metal slicing through his jacket and scraping against skin.

“Oh—oh shit,” Pugsley muttered, feeling the sudden sting and warm trickle of blood. “Okay, that actually hurts.”

But instead of panic, his brain went into some kind of weird gear, like someone flipped a switch from “freaked out” to “this is kinda awesome.” He blinked, took a slow breath, and grinned.

“Well, that’s one hell of an opener.”

The driver’s face was a twisted mask of rage and desperation, eyes blazing like fire trapped in stone.

Pugsley barely even flinched as the man lunged again, but this time Pugsley was ready. He grabbed the wrist holding the knife with both hands, yanking and twisting it hard.

The driver grunted, struggling, but Pugsley used his momentum to slam a fist right into the man’s jaw. The punch landed with a sickening crunch, and the driver’s eyes rolled back as his body slumped sideways against the cracked leather door.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Pugsley leaned back in his seat, his breath coming fast. His hand went to the wound in his side, fingers slick with warm, sticky blood. He didn’t know how deep the cut was, but somehow the fact he’d just been stabbed didn’t freak him out the way it should have.

"Whoa, okay, didn’t expect a souvenir,” he said with a half-laugh, pulling the knife free. The blade caught the dying sunlight, glittering like something dangerous and beautiful.

He held it up in front of his face and inspected it like it was a prize. “Yo, a new knife! This one’s way cooler than mine.”

Pugsley wiped the blade on his jacket, clearly excited. “I wonder what else he's got here.” he muttered to himself.

He glanced at the unconscious driver, sprawled out with drool pooling on the steering wheel.
“Could probably use this guy as a zombie training dummy. Might be good practice—stab the zombie, then use its own knife against it. Boom, survival 101.”

Pugsley let out a little laugh, pressing a hand to his side but not really feeling the pain anymore. His attention was already shifting, bouncing like a pinball off the edge of reality into his own little world.

“Okay, okay,” he muttered to himself, “first order of business: find a bandaid or something. Gotta keep this guy from turning me into a goo puddle.”

He looked around the truck cab like it might have some hidden medical supplies, but all he found was an empty coffee cup, a half-eaten bag of stale chips, and a cassette tape titled “Classic Rock Hits.”

Pugsley poked at the driver’s chest with the tip of the knife, half-expecting him to twitch or suddenly spring back to life, but no dice. Just a groggy snore and the steady rise and fall of a heavy breath.
He leaned back, testing the cut in his side. It didn’t feel great, but hey, it wasn’t exactly fatal either. The adrenaline was keeping the pain at bay.

“Could be worse,” Pugsley said aloud.

Pugsley’s eyes flicked back to the driver, sprawled out and helpless. For a second, he felt a twinge of something close to sympathy—maybe.

But that was quickly replaced by the shiny, sharp allure of the knife in his hand.
“Seriously, though,” he said, tapping the blade on the steering wheel. “This thing’s sweet. Way better than my usual ‘stabby stick.’”

He tried to remember where he put his own knife, probably lost it in the mess of his dorm or forgot it at home. Either way, this one was an upgrade.

“Yeah, definitely gotta keep this,” he muttered.
Pugsley glanced out the window. The road ahead was long and empty, lined with twisted trees that looked like they belonged in some horror movie.

The sunset was a sick, bruised orange, casting long shadows that made everything feel just a little more alive and dangerous.

“Alright, big guy,” Pugsley said to the unconscious driver, “you just tried to kill me, but I’m not even mad. That was kinda badass.”

He tapped the knife against the dashboard rhythmically.

“Y’know, I’m starting to think this whole ‘being chased and stabbed’ thing might be the highlight of my day.Cus y'know between you and me,Tyler wasnt really all that”

The truck rumbled back to life, the engine coughing as Pugsley turned the key. The driver was still out cold, no use pretending otherwise.

“Guess I’m driving now,” Pugsley said, sliding behind the wheel with a grin.

He adjusted the rearview mirror and caught a glimpse of his own face—smudged with dirt, eyes bright and wild, and a smear of blood on his cheek.

He laughed again, a little crazed.

“Yeah,” he said softly, “this is gonna be one hell of a story.”

The truck creaked and groaned as Pugsley steered it off the highway and into the tangled edges of Nevermore’s forest. The road narrowed quickly, turning into a rutted dirt path littered with broken branches and clumps of soggy leaves. Shadows pooled beneath the trees like spilled ink, and every so often, a twisted shape would dart just out of sight, a quick flicker of movement that made sigh.

“Man, this place is a freak show,” he muttered, one hand on the wheel, the other drumming a lazy rhythm against his leg. “Like some kinda weird nature documentary where the animals are all sunshine rau?”

Then a fox dashed across the path, but it wasn’t just any fox. This one had a missing ear and a limp that made it bounce awkwardly like it was trying to win some kind of animal beauty contest but forgot the rules.

“Oh, rough life, buddy,” Pugsley said with a grin, flicking the wheel to avoid a patch of moss that looked suspiciously like a giant fungus face sneering up at him. “But hey, at least you’re out here, alive and kicking.”

The truck rattled as he passed a rusted-out playground hidden beneath a canopy of trees—swing sets frozen mid-swing, chains creaking faintly in the wind. A tire swing spun slowly, though no breeze was stirring. It was the kind of place where you’d expect ghost kids to show up and start playing tag.

He chuckled to himself, rubbing his side where the stab still throbbed.

Up ahead, a flock of crows took off from a fallen log, cawing loudly as if they were gossiping about the new guy in town. Pugsley liked crows. They were smart. Probably smarter than most people he’d met
lately.

The people he's met so far have made some questionable choices.

The road twisted again, dipping down toward a creek where the water glistened faintly under the moonlight. The mud was thick and sticky, and the smell of wet earth was so strong it felt like the forest was breathing.

Pugsley pulled the truck to a stop beside the water’s edge and killed the engine. The silence was suddenly overwhelming. Even the night creatures seemed to hold their breath.

He glanced sideways at the driver slumped over in the passenger seat. The guy was out cold, snoring softly like he’d just passed out after too many
beers.

Pugsley didn’t waste time.

Dragging the man’s limp body out of the truck, he felt the cold mud squish between his boots as he carried him toward the creek.

“Alright, dude,” Pugsley said softly, voice almost cheerful, “I gotta say, this isn’t exactly the ‘hug it out’ kind of goodbye.”

He set the body down gently on the bank and stepped into the chilly water. The creek was shallow at first, but quickly deepened, swallowing his boots and sucking at his ankles. He grabbed the driver by the collar and pushed him into the water.

The man sputtered and flailed, eyes wide with panic. Pugsley held him under with steady hands, counting slowly, almost lazily.

“One... two... three...”

The struggling slowed, then stopped.

As the water closed over the man’s face, Pugsley smiled and said, “You know, this kinda reminds me of when Wednesday waterboarded me last Halloween. She said it was ‘practice for future interrogations.’ Fun times.”

He let go and stepped back onto the bank, watching as the water swallowed the body like a hungry beast.

Damn he left his snacks at the prison.

He turned back toward the truck, now sitting half-submerged in the muddy bank.

The engine sputtered weakly as he forced it into gear, wheels spinning in the mud. The water quickly rose, licking the bottom of the doors, then climbing higher, creeping up the windows.

The truck groaned and shuddered, sinking slowly into the creek’s dark belly. Pugsley wiped mud from his hands and breathed in the thick, damp air.
He looked up at the twisted branches overhead, half-expecting something to leap out—but the forest stayed still, watching.

“Nevermore,” he whispered. “You will not believe the day I've had.”

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

Pugsley slipped quietly through the dorm’s creaky door, the soft thud of the latch echoing too loud in the stillness. His boots were muddy, his shirt smudged with dirt and somewhere deep in his pocket, the knife he’d “acquired” was weighing heavy, like a kidney stone.

He fondly remembered the time he impacted a bomb into uncle fester and said it was a kidney stone. That was a good April fools.

Eugene was waiting. Of course he was. Standing by the cracked window with his arms crossed, eyes sharp as a hawk’s. The guy looked like he’d been ready to pounce the moment Pugsley walked in.

“Okay,” Eugene said, voice low but tense, “I gotta ask. Did you really go see Tyler?”

Pugsley shrugged, flashing that lazy grin that could either charm a snake or make it bite you. “Nah, man. I didn’t see anyone. I was out, uh… knife shopping.”

Eugene’s brow furrowed, unimpressed. “Knife shopping?”

“Yeah! You know, gotta keep the inventory fresh.” Pugsley reached into his jacket and pulled out the knife, holding it up like it was some rare collectible.

The blade caught the light, but it wasn’t clean. Dark streaks smeared the metal.

Eugene’s eyes went wide. “Is that—?”

“Blood? Oh, yeah.” Pugsley waved a hand nonchalantly. “I was testing it out. You know, quality control.”

“Testing it out? Like stabbing someone?” Eugene’s voice went a notch higher, disbelief and worry mixing together.

Pugsley laughed, the sound light but with a hint of something wild beneath it. “Nah, man. Just practice. Better to find out if it cuts good on, like, bugs first, right? Though, uh, might’ve accidentally nicked myself once or twice.” He looked down at the blade and flexed his fingers.

Eugene shook his head, looking like he wasn’t sure if Pugsley was joking or just crazy. “You really shouldn’t be messing around with that stuff.”

“Eh, whatever keeps me entertained,” Pugsley said, tossing the knife onto the table. “Besides, if I was gonna see Tyler, you think I’d tell you?”

Eugene’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You’re gonna get yourself killed, or worse, someone else hurt.”

Pugsley smiled."I think that's the nicest thing you've ever said to me."

Eugene blinked.

"Why do I even try."