Chapter Text
FIVE
Anthony Paper sat quietly in his stool, idly tapping at his beer glass with his middle finger. It was a nice, foamy beer, at least at first. After some time, any foam previously present had settled and the liquid that remained had staled to an unappetizing room temperature. The bar Paper sat within was nearly empty, only one other patron sitting a few seats down from him. The man had passed out a while ago, his face flat against the counter’s surface as he snored loudly.
The counter in question was a deep brown, contributing to the warm, cozy atmosphere of the interior he found himself within. The walls were panelled with a smooth mahogany, various photos and paintings of the local scenery hanging above the dandelion-colored fabric of the seats lining the edges of the room. Each group of two seats was accompanied by a table in a small booth-like area, where the rare diner could sit and chat with friends.
The dim, yellow light in the room flickered softly above Paper as he waited. Minute after minute, coming up towards an hour. The bartender, a woman named Dee Marshmallow, sat silently behind the counter watching one of the two TVs situated within the room. Her eyelids drooped heavily as she idled, her body tilting towards the arm of the chair as her body fell to sleep. Somehow, though, it was as if her mind had stayed awake, her eyes remaining fixated on the TV screen.
The bell by the door jingled, and Paper turned to his left to see who had arrived, and as he did so, his eyes widened. Patricia Taco moved slowly into the room, nervously glancing between the three others within. Marshmallow sprung into action, rushing to the counter and smacking it with one hand while using the other to wave.
“Hey, Mrs. Patricia!” she chirped, her high voice grating against the silence, “It’s been a while. You want the usual?”
“Hm?” Taco questioned, turning to face Marshmallow with an eyebrow raised. Taco’s eyes seemed distant, staring past Marshmallow, past Paper, and past the man at the table, towards the beautiful nothing of the wall behind.
Paper shuffled awkwardly in his seat, shifting his vision between Taco and Marshmallow for a moment before settling on Taco.
“H-hi, Taco!” he stammered, attempting to force a natural speech pattern.
Taco mumbled a return to Paper’s greeting before turning her attention back to Marshmallow.
“Usual is fine,” Taco said quietly, her voice unusually down in tone, “Thanks.”
Marshmallow gave a quick thumbs up and got to work.
“Lemonade County Special, right?” she asked, pulling a few bottles out from under the counter.
“Yeah,” Taco responded. She moved further into the room, the various papers stuffed between the ingredients within her shell shifting about as she moved.
Paper shifted uncomfortably in his seat as Taco sat down a good distance away from him, to his left. He took a short breath, then grabbed his drink and walked over to Taco, sitting to her right. She glared at him through her glasses, but didn’t protest as she turned her attention back to Marshmallow. Paper narrowed his eyes as he looked around the room, then at Taco, investigating her appearance.
“What happened to your ring?” he inquired.
Taco didn’t move as she responded. “Divorce,” she muttered.
Paper’s eyes widened. “Divorce?” he questioned, his eyebrows raised nearly beyond the top of his page, “You- Like, you got a divorce?”
“She did,” Taco responded flatly.
Paper hesitated, his expression softening. He turned to face forwards, back towards his drink as he returned to his tapping habit.
“I’m sorry…” he mumbled.
Taco sighed. “It’s-”
“Here you go!” Marshmallow squeaked, setting down Taco’s drink with a thud.
Both Taco and Paper flinched, their vision yanked towards Marshmallow as she drummed idly against the countertop. Her mouth was curled into a wide smile, yet her eyes remained drooped and tired. Taco timidly wrapped her hand around the short, wide glass of the yellow-tinted drink.
“Thanks,” she said.
“Yup!” Marshmallow chirped, “So, any plans this weekend?”
“I have…” Taco started before hesitating for just a moment, “Business… To attend to. Nothing of your concern.”
“Well,” Marshmallow sighed, “Good luck with that.” She didn’t inquire further.
For about ten minutes, the entire room fell quiet. Taco and Paper sipped at their drinks while Marshmallow returned to her sleepy sitting. The only consistent sound came from the snoring of the drunken man, the TVs playing their bizarre conspiracy programs, and the jukebox quietly singing its songs of the day from the corner.
Then, Taco finished her drink. Getting up from her stool, she left a ten dollar bill on the table, and moved slowly towards the door. For just a moment, she turned back towards Paper, giving him a knowing glance. He quickly sprung into action, downing the last bit of beer he had left and leaving a couple of crumpled up bills, plus a small tip of quarters. He got up and followed Taco out of the bar, waving to Marshmallow, who didn’t stir from her Schrodinger’s slumber.
Outside, the cold breeze of the night brushed against Paper’s body, and he began to shiver just slightly. He followed Taco as she moved down the sidewalk, past multiple alleyways lit only by the warm glow of the streetlamps found scarcely by the street nearby. Taco slipped into the fifth alleyway, and, after a moment’s hesitation just outside, Paper followed. They stood together next to a deep red payphone to the right, underneath the light of a single, orange, flickering lamp positioned above a crimson door to the left. The cold gray concrete beneath them was rough, used often yet maintained far less. Nothing else was present in that alleyway, no sound besides the wind, no light besides the aforementioned lamp and the gentle, cool glow of the moon, and no person besides the two standing together, facing one another in the alleyway. Paper opened his mouth as if to speak, but said nothing, quickly closing up and creating an awkward silence.
Taco then pulled out a pistol.
It was sudden, right out of her shell, as quick as a draw could be. Paper jumped backwards in a sudden panic as Taco pointed the weapon directly between his eyes.
“Don’t move,” she growled. Paper nodded quickly, his eyes wide as he put his shaking hands up in the air.
“W-P-Wh-P-P-Please don’t kill me!” Paper squeaked.
Taco quickly shushed him.
“Be quiet, you cretin!” she hissed, “Be quiet, and I won’t have to.”
“W-What do you want?”
“What I want is to know where it will happen.”
OCTOBER 5, 2024
SATURDAY
08:00 AM
In the United States, in the state of Oregon, there was a substantial chunk of land referred to as Lemonade County. Within this county were a few small towns, the only one to boast of being a simple 70,000 person city called Redding. Redding was known mostly for being a rather decent food stop for truckers, the various local businesses crafting what some considered the fifth-best meals in the Pacific Northwest. Some were mediocre, of course, the bar scene was nothing to write home about, but the best of what was present made enough of a name for the city for any citizen to be happy.
Just south of town lay a large portion of land covered entirely of grass, humorously referred to by locals as “Needsamow Field” due to the nearly 2.5 meter height of the grass itself. It was generally advised within the community not to venture within, lest one get lost in the weeds. There was the occasional adventurer who knew their way around the field like the back of their hand, but most would need at least a compass to venture within.
Or a map.
Harold Balloon trudged slowly through the forest of grass, squinting at a piece of paper held closely in front of him as his body tilted forwards. Near-incoherent ramblings were scrawled in black printer ink from the top to the bottom of the white page, a true mockery of directions. On the back of the paper was what seemed to be a map, although it was rather unhelpful, being covered completely in a solid green with a single orange-outlined circle near the center.
Balloon’s phone let out the occasional “Ding!” from inside his small, salmon tote bag as he walked, although he paid it no mind. Ding, after ding, after ding, after ding, and yet he continued to ignore it. He was focused, his eyes steeled forwards, each step going further into the dark abyss of the weeds before him, until suddenly, his foot hit against something hard.
Balloon immediately tumbled forwards, flying face-first into the ground. He cursed softly to himself as he pushed himself upwards with his arms and stumbled to his feet, legs wobbling. He awkwardly brushed dirt from his face and began to search through his bag, which had fallen beside him. Suddenly, he heard another ding, but not from within the bag. Another one sounded, and he groaned in frustration, dropping to his knees and shuffling his hands around the dirt. Grime began to work its way underneath his fingernails as he pushed onwards, blindly searching his way towards the source of the incessant sound.
“Gh…” Balloon grumbled, “Where is it…?”
By this point, the dings had become quieter, not louder, as Balloon fumbled around in the thick weeds. Although, as he sat still for just a moment, contemplating his situation, he noticed something. The dings were getting closer, and now came with an accompanying track, the rustling of grass. The sounds inched closer and closer, and Balloon scrambled to his feet, stumbling momentarily before securing his balance just before the figure came into view.
“You dropped this,” Autumn Paintbrush said flatly, extending their long arm outwards, the phone on full display. Balloon couldn’t quite see their entire body, but responded nonetheless.
“Thanks…” he mumbled.
“Don’t mention it,” Paintbrush sighed. Suddenly, a voice from behind them called out.
“Painty! I don’t have a map, and these weeds are confusing! I need my guide to see, I’m blind in here!”
Paintbrush chuckled softly before catching themself, taking a quick breath and wordlessly turning back and trudging through the grass towards the voice. Balloon steadied his breathing and checked his phone for a moment, seeing the most recent texts he had received.
Thomas Baseball: “nickel’s car broke down”
Thomas Baseball: “he’s been ranting about it for a while”
Thomas Baseball: “he’s hitching a ride with me jsyk”
Nicholas Nickel: “hey”
Thomas Baseball: “we’ll be there soon”
Thomas Baseball: “prepare your ears”
Nicholas Nickel: “i know you’re seeing these”
Balloon’s eyes widened, and he quickly shoved his phone back into his bag as more dings alerted him of more messages. He took a deep breath as he lifted his hand, clutching a crumpled-up sheet of paper, separate from the garbled set of instructions that he held in his other hand. He reread the now uncrumpled letter.
Dear Harold Balloon,
I hope this letter finds you in good health, and good spirit, as I would like to present to you an opportunity. One last party, in honor of an old, forgotten friend. The date is October 5th, at 8:00 AM, in the usual spot. Do note that unlike last year, there will not be someone to guide you through the surrounding foliage, so in lieu of that luxury a set of instructions has been included within this envelope. Use them if you must.
As well, as an encouragement to attend, upon the end of the second day, you will be gifted a deal with a local publisher to push out your collection of poems. They have expressed interest in your work, but are hesitant to accept. I can give them the push they need to fully back it, including the remaining work necessary to bring it to completion. However, I must stress, this is an option I can only offer upon your attendance.
Hope to see you there,
You-Know-Who
P.S. - Please bring this invitation upon arrival, and do not mention its contents to anyone. Failure to follow these rules will result in your reward being revoked.
Balloon sighed, pushing the letter back into his bag. Forcing himself to move onwards, he shoved himself through the weeds, until, soon enough, he had made it out. His foot landed on a well-trimmed patch of grass, and so did the next, and the next as he moved into the large, circular clearing. The field was damp from rainfall, but despite that, it was far nicer than the miserable, blind hunt through the weeds.
The clearing itself was about 20 meters in diameter, and was a perfect circle filled in completely with short grass, laden with the scent of the dewy morning. Near the border of the circle, just before the weeds began, the grass had been painted a vibrant orange. In the center, the pupil of the field’s eye, stood a singular, wooden shack. It wasn’t tall, only about 2 meters high, and the same measurement wide, while its length exceeded 6 meters. The dark brown planks making up its exterior had a slight orange tint to them, as if a poor paint job had faded to near invisibility over the years. A flat, black-tiled roof topped the building off, leaving a lot to be desired in the realm of what was to be considered impressive.
Yet, it was his destination.
Standing by the shack were three others who had made it to the clearing before Balloon. Paintbrush stood closest to the edge, fidgeting with their small necklace depicting the body shape of May Lightbulb, who herself stood close by. Lightbulb had her own necklace to match Paintbrush’s, depicting their shape rather than her own. She was snuggled up against them, her tail-esque power cord wagging slowly as she played with the purple-dyed sections of her partner’s bristles. Paintbrush blushed softly at this. They used the arm and hand free from their necklace fidgeting to wrap around Lightbulb, subtly brushing at the small purple flower placed atop her bulb.
The other person in the clearing was leaned up against the side of the shack, smoking a cigarette. Upon spotting Balloon, however, the person quickly put it out by throwing it in the grass, then signaled for Balloon to approach. Balloon did not oblige, instead opting to sit at the edge of the clearing, staring downwards at the orange grass. The person at the shack, James Box, glared at him, and began to approach, but was quickly cut off by the arrival of two others through the grass, causing Box to freeze in place.
Thomas Baseball and Nicholas Nickel did not greet Box. Nor did they greet Balloon, or Paintbrush, or Lightbulb. Instead, upon Nickel laying his eyes upon Box, he shut down any attempts at hellos by looking as if he were about to vomit as he fell to his knees. Baseball quickly sat by Nickel, who was staring wide-eyed at Box while Baseball wordlessly took off the coin’s green fishing hat and sunglasses.
Nickel turned his vision to Baseball, and the scar that ran diagonally across the sports ball’s worried face. He turned his vision to Box, and the upside-down “This Way Up” symbol printed at the bottom-right of its body. Back, and forth, and back, and forth, and then, suddenly, his demeanor changed. His eyebrows furrowed, his eyes narrowed, and his breathing slowed, despite now being slightly louder. He shot to his feet, and began to move towards Box, stomping through the grass. However, he was stopped.
“Nickel,” Baseball said, “Don’t.”
Before Nickel could interject, the rustling of the weeds turned his attention, and soon enough, out of the wall of green came Samuel Cherries. Both of his faces wore a weary expression, with the left side frowning while the right held his mouth in a thin, straight line. He wore glasses on only the left side of his face, and the right had a single leaf covering one eye. He didn’t say a word upon entering, and simply sat by the edge. Box, however, quickly moved towards him.
“Cherries!” it chirped, “How are things?”
Nickel glared at Box as it glided across the grass, but stayed silent. Cherries did the same.
“Cherries,” Box sighed, getting up close to the fruit, “Cherries, man, you gotta say something. Don’t leave me-”
Cherries mumbled something inaudible to the others within the circle, cutting Box off. Box hesitated momentarily, then let out a frustrated groan. Grabbing Cherries’ leftmost arm, it pulled him off to the other side of the clearing, away from everyone else, where it initiated a one-sided, whispered argument.
The wind had begun to pick up, blowing against the weeds in a futile effort to rip them from the ground. The most the maze of grass ever did was sway ever so slightly east, like a field of sunflowers following the rising sun.
As the weeds rustled once more, the distant, orange glow of the morning began to reflect off of the surfaces of the two fresh arrivals. Trevor Trophy and Mason Knife stepped into view, talking and laughing with one another as their speech became more clear to those within the clearing.
“Oh, really?” Knife scoffed, “I doubt it.”
“Come on,” Trophy jeered, “It’s not like you could either.”
“So you admit you can’t do it?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“Then how about you prove it?” Knife said, a smile spreading across his face.
Trophy raised an eyebrow at Knife as they stopped in front of the shack, letting out a strained, single laugh.
“Here’s your chance,” Knife chuckled, gesturing behind Trophy and towards Baseball, who was approaching the two of them, a stern look placed upon his face.
“Hey, you two,” Baseball sighed, “I know it’s a bit cold, but, if you’re trying to get in early, you know the rules.”
Trophy turned around to face Baseball, glaring into the ball’s insufferable gaze.
“Really?” Trophy grumbled.
“Yes, really,” Baseball said, “Look, someone’s gotta enforce this stuff, okay? Now-”
“And that someone is you?”
Baseball hesitated before responding. “I know you…” He took in a sharp breath. “Look, I know his death… Is, well… Tough, but-”
“You wouldn’t know shit about that,” Trophy growled.
After five seconds of silence, still staring at Baseball, Trophy put his hand on the knob to the shack. Baseball raised an eyebrow, his mouth shifting to a frustrated frown.
“Trophy, I-”
Baseball was cut off as Trophy suddenly swung the door open, slamming it into Baseball and knocking him to the ground. Everyone in the clearing turned to look, most tensing up as they witnessed the act. A vicious cackle escaped from Trophy’s mouth as Baseball rolled about a meter before scrambling to his feet. Knife covered his hand as he let out a muffled chuckle.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Baseball spat, his mouth curling into an infuriated grimace as a small amount of blood leaked from within.
“Me?” Trophy scoffed, “What’s wrong with me?” His voice grew louder as he spoke, turning quickly into an angry shout. “What the fuck is wrong with you?!”
“What did I do?!” Baseball whined.
“You know what you did!”
“I wouldn’t be asking you if I did!”
“Listen, fatass,” Trophy growled, “If you’re gonna play dumb, at least don’t pretend that I’m the idiot here.”
Suddenly, Baseball’s demeanor changed. His previous expression neutralized, and his eyes went blank. His legs shook softly under his weight for just a moment before suddenly freezing. His eyes steeled, and he shot forwards, charging directly into Trophy, who was swiftly knocked off his feet. Baseball stood towering over Trophy, who scrambled backwards in the grass as Baseball’s expression changed to what it had previously been, now with the addition of his teeth clenching together tighter than a hydraulic press against a two-ton brick of concrete. Knife then came into view, standing in front of Trophy.
“What the hell, man!?” he grumbled, fists clenched.
“He threw the first punch!” Baseball retorted.
“So what?! You-”
“Shut up!” Trophy spat, his voice cracking as he shoved Knife out of the way and approached Baseball, breathing heavily. “I don’t need your help.”
“But,” Knife started, “Trophy, remember what-”
“No.” Trophy growled, shoving Knife to the side. Turning his attention towards Baseball, Trophy threw a hook. Baseball quickly stepped backwards, managing to dodge the punch, but in the process lost his balance and fell to his back. Taking his chance, Trophy lunged towards the fallen man, screaming and punching at his hide exterior, landing blow after heavy blow.
“You BASTARD,” Trophy bellowed, “You think you’re some big man, huh!!? Mr. Thomas, the big boss, directing us all around!” He took in a deep breath as a few tears formed in his eyes. “YOU AREN’T LIKE HIM, NO MATTER HOW HARD YOU TRY TO BE!” Knife stood awkwardly to the side, seemingly reaching towards Trophy, but making no effort to actually grab him.
The crowd of onlookers, now having grown to include John Dough and Marco Yin-Yang, watched on in silence, only Paintbrush appearing to have any will to interfere as they took a hesitant step forwards. Before they could intervene fully, however, four others came through the weeds, each carrying their own identical blue bag embroidered in light yellow thread with the words “Anthony’s Catering”.
June Test-Tube was the first to jump into action, rushing forwards to pull Trophy off of Baseball. Anthony Fan followed quickly in pursuit, leaving Taylor Microphone and Millie Suitcase to stand behind the situation in an awkward silence. Fan and Test Tube each grabbed one of Trophy’s arms, yanking him off of Baseball. After struggling for a few seconds, Trophy managed to tear himself free from their grips, and took a few steps backwards.
“What do you want!?” he spat.
“I should be asking you!” Test Tube retorted, “What was that?!”
“He…” Trophy started, hesitating.
Knife stepped forwards.
“Baseball said some things that made him angry,” he stated flatly, “Now, can we please just drop this?”
“But-”
“Trophy,” Knife sighed, “You know why you have to stay calm. So just… Be normal? Please? For all of our sakes?”
Trophy sighed, then let out an angry growl, shooting his fist into the wood of the shack. It splintered and cracked, sending shards of broken planks into his knuckles. Trophy winced, but otherwise did not react.
“Trophy!” Fan said, wearing a face of disappointment as he approached the golden man. “That is a highly inappropriate use of your anger! I’d expect better from you after-”
“Oh, shut up,” Trophy grumbled.
“Do not talk to him that way!” Test Tube interjected, “If you are angry, take that anger away from the rest of us!”
“Oh, you wanna play that game?” Trophy laughed, “How’s about this one? You-”
“Do not try to change the subject, mister!” Test Tube said.
“Excuse me?!”
“You heard what I said!”
“Test Tube-” Fan started before being quickly cut off.
“In fact,” Test Tube continued, “I think that-”
“What I think is that everyone needs to calm down,” Baseball stated, his voice shaking slightly as he managed to bring himself to his feet.
“Don’t interrupt-”
“Nobody cares what you think!” Trophy spat, “You-”
“How about we all just take a breath!” Fan started.
“How about you join your brother?!” Trophy retorted.
“Wh-Huh?” Fan questioned, narrowing his eyes as his mouth set into a perplexed frown. After staring at Trophy in silence for a moment, he then looked down in thought.
Suitcase began to approach the scene, her eyes soft with worry.
“Guys,” she started, “Could-”
“Not your fight, Suitcase,” Baseball muttered.
“She’s trying to defuse things!” Test Tube shouted.
Trophy didn’t even look at her as he responded. “This is still none of her business!”
“Wha-Do-Who’s side are you on?!” Fan stammered.
The group continued to argue, getting louder and louder as voices overlapped with one another, creating a cacophony of overwhelming dialogue. Somehow, nobody took any violent action, not even Trophy, but the sheer volume reached by the group felt to those nearby like violence in itself, and one person had had enough.
“WILL EVERYONE JUST SHUT UP!!”
The voice was booming, drowning out all other noise in the area. The argumentative crowd quickly fell silent, and all faces turned their attention towards the source of the shout. All eyes upon them, Paintbrush stood still, fists balled up tight as they breathed deeply through their clenched teeth. Taking a slow breath, they relaxed their body and rubbed their index finger and thumb against their forehead, turning their gaze towards the ground.
“Just…” they mumbled, “God, you’re all gonna…”
Paintbrush’s body tensed as they suddenly took in a sharp breath and looked back up towards the group. Everyone was awkwardly shuffling off, not out of the circle, but away from one another. Relaxing their posture, they let out a frustrated sigh. Lightbulb approached them from behind, tenderly placing her hand on their shoulder. Yin-Yang as well moved towards them, taking a seat in the grass to their left. Paintbrush too sat down, followed by Lightbulb.
“So…” Yin mumbled, rubbing his sapphire necklace between his index finger and thumb, “Tough morning?”
Paintbrush nodded silently.
“I get it,” Yin sighed, “I really do. You know, what did you have for breakfast this morning? I read that sometimes-”
“Nobody cares about your stupid nerd shit!” Yang interrupted, taking his hand off the necklace and placing it firmly on the ground. Yin let out a frustrated breath.
“Yang, could-”
“I didn’t eat,” Paintbrush mumbled, “I couldn’t.”
Lightbulb’s eyes widened, and she turned towards them.
“Painty!” she whined, “I made you pancakes for the sugary delight of energy, you need that to get through the day!”
Paintbrush sighed. “That’s why I didn’t tell you, I didn’t want you to worry.”
Lightbulb’s eyes drifted from theirs for a moment, staring towards the grass.
“So… As I was saying,” Yin started, “If-”
“No!” Yang shouted.
“If you would let me-”
“No!”
“At least-”
“No!”
Paintbrush let out a soft chuckle as they started to fidget with the grass, holding it tightly between their fingers. The small smile on their face, however, started to turn to a frown, and their face went pale. Standing up, they rushed to the edge of the circle, where they hunched over, making an awful retching noise. Lightbulb quickly chased after them, giving them a soft, comforting pat on the back as they gagged.
On the other side of the clearing, muffled arguing could be heard slowly growing clearer. One voice was high and squeaky, while the other grated against the ears of any who heard it.
“Look, for the last time,” Dee Marshmallow groaned, “I-”
She paused, one foot into the clearing.
“What, what is it?” Sammy Cheese asked, “You were say-”
“Cheesy, we’re here,” Marshmallow stated, stepping fully out into the clearing. Cheesy soon followed, curiously glancing about the clearing, her mouth hanging open just a bit with a slight downward tilt at the edges.
“Oh,” Cheesy said flatly. “Well,” she continued, injecting her voice with a cheery disposition, “Why didn’t you say so?” She smiled wide, looking towards the group.
Marshmallow narrowed her eyes, turning towards Cheesy. “I… I did, thou-”
“Hey guys!” Cheesy chirped, waving at the crowd, “Who’s ready to par-tay!”
Not a single person waved back, besides Yin, who was quickly stopped by Yang. Nobody said a word either, that is, until Box returned, Cherries following close behind it.
“I know I sure am!” Box called, clapping its hands together as a smile spread across its face. As Box approached the fifteen others in the clearing, Nickel curled up into a ball, pressing his legs against his silver body. Cherries, who had sat by the shed, alone, had tears under his left side’s eyes, obscured by his thick glasses.
Cheesy moved towards Box, giving it a quick high-five. “Hell yeah!” she said, “So, who isn’t here yet?”
“Hell if I know,” Box laughed, “All I’ve got is that the big boy’s count over there…” It gestured towards Baseball. “Is at fifteen, seventeen now with you two.”
Baseball glared at Box as it spoke, but made no attempt to interrupt.
“Hey, Cheesy?” Marshmallow said.
“Well,” Cheesy said, “That’s pretty close to everyone… Uh…”
“Come on, you can figure out my name,” Box groaned.
“Cheesy,” Marshmallow started, “Can-”
“Well, duh, Box, but I just forgot-”
“Cheesy!” Marshmallow squeaked, grabbing the cheese wedge’s arm, “Cheesy, can we talk please?”
“But-”
“Please!”
“...Fine,” Cheesy mumbled, waving quickly to Box as Marshmallow dragged her over to the back of the shed. Box sighed, glaring at Marshmallow as the pair moved away, then turned towards the edge of the clearing, waiting.
Not a sound besides the wind.
For thirty minutes the group waited in near-perfect silence, with only the occasional chatter amongst themselves. The three who had eluded the gathering so far had continued not to show.
It took until 8:41 for even one of them to arrive, stumbling halfway out of the weed wall before falling to her knees within the orange grass.
“I’m… Here…” Regina Apple wheezed, rasping desperately to reoxygenate herself, “Got… Lost…” Taking a deep breath, she flopped face-first into the orange below her, the bottom half of her body still obscured by the mess of weeds. Marshmallow quickly moved towards her, giving her a soft, reassuring pat on the back.
Only two minutes later, the final two visitors made it. Their arrival was foreshadowed by a distant sound of sneezing and coughing, muffled by the weeds yet still pushing through to a disturbingly high level of audibility. Soon enough, everyone’s suspicions were confirmed as Gerald Tissues came stumbling out of the foliage, led by the arm of Aubrey Soap.
“Oughh…” Tissues groaned, stopping his slow, shambling movements as he leaned on his intricate wooden cane. “Can we go in… I don’t feel so good…”
Soap scanned the crowd, her eyes landing on Baseball, who stood leaned against the shack’s doors. His mouth had been cleaned up, removing the only sign of the scuffle with Trophy.
“Is everyone here?” she asked.
Baseball took in a breath, looking upwards for a moment before directing his attention back towards Soap.
“Yeah, I think so,” he said, his voice giving away his extreme exhaustion. He stood up straight and called out to the rest of the group. “Hey, everyone, it’s time to head down.”
The reaction amongst the crowd was slow, a light shambling to the doors of the shack as Baseball propped them open. One by one, everyone piled inside, unimpressed by the wooden shed’s rather surprising interior. Four gray, steel walls greeted them within, a cold metallic floor and ceiling accompanying them. A single red button was positioned near the back wall, perpendicular to a large, silver door on the right. Four orange ceiling lights sat positioned in the corners of the ceiling, casting a soft, strangely blue light throughout the room.
After all twenty present had gathered within the room, Paintbrush, who stood near the back, pressed the red button on the wall. Suddenly, after a loud buzzer sound, the doors to the shack automatically swung shut, and the entire room began to move. It descended at a slow pace, carrying the twenty partygoers deeper and deeper into the dirt and stone. It took two full minutes to come screeching to a halt at the bottom, and the gray doors on the long side of the elevator squeaked open with a buzz, revealing a dark, stone room, lit only by a few white, LED ceiling lamps hanging from above. A large, blank, imposing set of doors sat at the other end of the long room, about four meters tall and three meters wide, with no visible handles.
To the left of the door was a bright red case secured by glass, containing a crimson fire axe. The label above read “Break glass in case of EMERGENCY ONLY”, and a small hammer was secured to the side of the box. Nearby, on the leftmost wall of the room, a deep, orange-outlined recess within the wall became where the group stashed their phones and other electronics. Then, it was simply a waiting game for when the large doors at the end of the room would open.
Near the corner of the room, by the elevator, Dough had sat down, rubbing at his eyes. He yawned, and leaned back, his slow breathing being the only giveaway that his life continued. Nearby, Microphone, Test Tube, Fan, and Suitcase were chatting quietly with one another.
“It’s interesting,” Fan said, “This really feels like the setup to something bigger, y’know?”
Microphone nodded in agreement. “It is strange,” she sighed, “But, we were hired to do a job, so… Let’s just… Not worry about it, I guess?” A small chorus of agreement sounded from the other three.
“Of course, of course,” Fan stated, “It’s just… I dunno. Something feels off about all of this.”
“Now that you mention it…” Suitcase started, “I have noticed a lot more… Tension, I guess, compared to last year.”
“Yeah, and last year was bad enough already,” Test Tube mumbled.
“Exactly,” Suitcase said, “And, with everything going on with OJ, I mean… God, I cannot imagine the amount of stress he was under.”
“Guys,” Microphone whined, “I just… Can we-”
“And that’s just the thing,” Fan said, his eyes lighting up, “If the guy running this, who owns this place is dead, why are we here? Who invited us?”
“Wait, you don’t know?” Test Tube questioned.
“No, the envelope wasn’t signed and had no return address. Just the money and the basic instructions.”
“Fan, you…” Test Tube’s face scrunched up, and she clenched a fist, “Fan!”
“Huh?”
“Fan, we’ve talked about this, do not take on clients without knowing who they are! Do you remember what happened last time?!”
“Trophy got arrested?”
“God- Not the last party, you…” Test Tube groaned in frustration, turning away and sitting down, placing her face in her hands.
“Hey,” Microphone said softly, crouching down next to Test Tube, “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” she grumbled.
“Alright, just… We’re your friends, alright?” Microphone sighed, “You can always come to us if you need anything.”
“Sure,” Test Tube mumbled.
The group of four stayed silent, twiddling their thumbs until suddenly, someone patted Test Tube on the back.
“It’s okay, Tube,” Box chirped, “We all have our moments. What’s important is that we learn, and grow, and move on.” It smiled wide at the four confused caterers. “What?” It chuckled, “Is there something on my face?” No response. Box’s smile began to fade, and a bead of sweat rolled down its face.
“Well, just, you know, I’m also here if any of you need anything,” it continued, “And, you guys are my friends, you know, you’re-” Box turned itself to face towards the center of the room. “You’re all my friends!” it called, giving two thumbs-ups, “And I love y’all for it! Keep being awesome!”
Nobody said a word in response. Box quickly ejected itself from the conversation, moving towards where Trophy and Baseball were having a conversation of their own. It, however, didn’t intervene, and instead simply watched.
“Trophy,” Baseball said, “Look, I’m sorry, okay? I was out of line, I shouldn’t have implied, or… Said, that…”
“It’s fine, man,” Trophy mumbled, “Sorry I hit you.”
The two of them began to stare at the floor, no words being exchanged until Knife, who was standing to the side of Trophy, cleared his throat.
“So, that’s cleared up?” he questioned, “No more fighting? Everyone’s happy?”
Trophy and Baseball nodded solemnly.
“Good,” Knife sighed, “Now, can…”
“I still think you don’t get it,” Trophy growled.
“Trophy, please,” Baseball whined, “Can we-”
“I’ll handle it,” Knife stated flatly, taking Trophy’s arm and pulling him roughly away, towards the end of the room by the large double doors.
“He doesn’t get it, Knife.”
“I know, okay? I understand, really I do. But please, for the sake of all of us, and especially yourself, can you just… Keep things calm today?”
Trophy crossed his arms like a pouting child, letting out a grunt of agreement.
Knife sighed, turning his attention to another conversation that had stricken up nearby between Paintbrush, Lightbulb, and Soap.
“So…” Soap started, scratching softly at her chin, “How’ve things been for you two? It’s been a while since we talked.”
“It’s been alright,” Paintbrush said, “Not a whole lot going on, y’know.”
“Fair enough,” Soap said. She turned her attention towards Lightbulb. “And you?”
Lightbulb perked up, having previously been looking about the room in wonder. “Oh, same as always,” she chirped, “Just livin’ the good life with the ol’ Painter over here!” She smiled broadly, pulling Paintbrush towards them.
They chuckled awkwardly, attempting to pull away from Lightbulb as she spoke.
“You know,” she continued, “After everything that’s happened, we’re doing better than you’d think.”
Paintbrush pulled themselves away from Lightbulb, sighing as they rubbed at their forehead. “Yeah, sure…” they mumbled, “As if…” They paused, letting out a breath. “Nevermind.”
Soap gave a suspicious glance, furrowing her eyebrows as she looked between the lovers in front of her. She then shrugged, and turned towards Tissues, who had suddenly shown up by her side, quivering softly as he held his cane tightly in his hand.
“Soap,” he grumbled, “Soap, a word?”
“Oh, of course,” Soap replied. She turned back towards the other two. “Just a second,” she said, following Tissues closer to the nearest corner of the room.
“So, Soap…” Tissues started, “You wouldn’t happen to know a Thalia Recorder, would you?”
“Uhm…” Soap pondered, looking up towards the ceiling and biting her lip slightly, “I can’t say I… Wait, she’s that lawyer down the street, maybe..? She specializes in elder law, right?”
“That’s the one,” Tissues rasped, letting out a single cough followed by a sniffle. “She’s supposed to be here, you know.”
Soap narrowed her eyes, a perplexed look overtaking her face. “She… Huh?”
“Yeah, said somethin’ about…” Tissues hesitated before continuing. “Aw, damn it, who cares. Take a look at this.” He handed Soap a small, snot-covered piece of paper. She held it with only the tips of two of her fingers as she looked it over.
To Gerald Tissues,
This is not a letter I wish to write, nor one I would prefer to send. However, it would unfortunately seem that a somewhat close family member of yours, one Gerald Wipe, has passed away as of last week. (September 9th, at 10:09PM to be precise.) I extend great sorrow for this loss.
In his will he left a rather large sum of money in your name, alongside various other luxuries, however, due to clerical errors within said will, an alternative arrangement must be made.
Come to the party place in Needsamow Fields at 8:00 AM on the 5th of October. There will be others present, do not mind them, it is simply a formality as I have a very, very busy schedule, and my only available time to meet is at this party.
I will consult with you at the end of the second day. Until then, enjoy your time at the party as you see fit, and I wish you luck in your grieving process.
Best Wishes,
Thalia Recorder, Elder Law Specialist
P.S. Please bring this invitation upon arrival, and do not mention its contents to anyone. I would prefer this meeting remain secret due to certain laws preventing this kind of consultation. In the same realm, do not attempt to contact me, as again, this meeting must remain secret, and behind closed doors.
Soap’s eyes widened as she read, one of her eyebrows slowly inching upwards.
“S-so, this…” she stammered.
“Is bullshit, is what it is,” Tissues grumbled, “I haven’t met a Gerald Wipe in my life, and Ms. Thalia is nowhere to be seen.”
“Th-That’s nowhere near what my invitation said, either.”
“What did yours say?”
Soap took in a sharp breath. “Just… M-Money, y’know. Similar, but different.”
“But you said-”
The toll of a bell interrupted Tissues. Suddenly, the giant set of double doors near the end of the room began to drift open, turning outwards into the newly revealed area of the facility. It was 9:00 AM. Everyone slowly filed through the entryway, making it through before the large, creaking doors closed behind them. Pushing and shoving ensued, but nobody got explicitly violent. There was simply an impatience to get within and get over it all. The doors began to drift shut, eventually closing completely with a solid clank. Those within the building had been completely locked inside. It was time for the party to begin.
Yet, despite twenty being present just minutes ago…
Nineteen remained.