Bloodsoak

Summary:

Chester is the typical nerdy gay teen of his group of friends, six totally different people who have been together since their early school years. The passing of time changes lots of things, and now, as a group of Seniors, they must deal with the ever-present dread of their final year before true adulthood, from burgeoning crushes to becoming true people seperate from their parents. .

But forces are swirling around their city, dark forces that have been trapped for centuries. When Chester finds a way to summon an Elder God from one of the antiques he inherited from his uncle he and his friends think it's the best way to get what they want for as little effort as possible. But what they think they know and what they know are two different things, and things turn out worse than they could have ever expected.

Bloodsoak Chapter 1: In which there is a campfire

If you'll watch the house in the end of the lane with the perfectly tended garden and the mailbox proclaiming 'The Woddeleys' you would see one of the finer tended houses in the city. It is a classic two-story, looking a bit like the famed Amityville House, the difference being its inhabitants are anything but ghostly.

If you'll examine the upper-right window (the only lighted one in the house) you'll see it crack open and a spiky head emerge. By this time it's a little past dusk, at the point where the sun has just set so that there's enough light to see and yet it's dark enough to cover one's tracks. The head peers over the side of the house and checks to make sure noone is around, and then it withdraws. The window is swung completely open and the body attached to the figure pulls itself out and (after a series of remarkably atheltic moves) clings onto a drainpipe.

It stops for a moment, looking down at the ground and the perfectly white paint job. After some consideration it digs a foot into a particularly grody gutter and slides down the drainpipe, using its feet to not only slow its descent but also smear disgusting residue everywhere. The figure hits the ground and for the first time it comes into complete focus, as it is illuminated by the light overtop the garage. It gives the impression of a walking over-large scarecrow, all gangly stick arms and over-long limbs. A head is perched precariously on the top, with spiky yellow blonde hair that looks like it was bleached and skin like a healed sunburn-brown winter tan that won't go away. This gives him the look of a crackhead surfer who doesn't know what season it is. Unfortunately for him this is his actual coloring.

Perched atop his nose is a pair of glasses thick enough to fry an ant with the power of a penlight inside thick square black frames. Covering his body is an over-large black hoodie, army camo pants, and a pair of combat boots.

"Chester Boggsley, you are good," he said to himself.

He took a moment to get his breath back, to relax and enjoy the night air.

Then the porch light flipped on and he took off like an Olympic runner.

Regardless of what it looked like he was not, in fact, a burglar. He lived in that very house, actually, and even though he was sneaking away he was hoping to return tonight. There was a gathering, you see, that he attended every Sunday religiously. It wasn't church, incidentally.

The six kids sat around the campfire in the chilly summer night and stared at one another as the radio blared in the background. Chester was reminded of playing Duck, Duck, Goose as a child. Typically everyone would skip him, except for the boy who sat across from him every time and made faces at him.

In reminiscence (or perhaps conscious irony) the same boy was now standing across the circle from him giving him a lewd smirk. He reached into his large trenchcoat and produced several bottles of what looked like varying degrees of alcoholic drink and passed them around.

"Now don't go getting your hopes up," Wingnut said. "This was the best I could do."

The best he could do appeared to be six bottles of Sparkling Cider. He leaned forward and nudged Chester in the side, handing him a bottle of Grape.

"I know how you like the taste of purple things," he said confidentially. He gave him another lewd grin and a hearty pat-squeeze of the shoulder (lingering a moment too long? Chester wondered) and then wandered away, presumably to pass out the rest. Chester kept his face carefully tilted towards the bottle in his hand and fervently hoped noone would notice the blush on his face.

As if on cue Veronica picked up on it immediately.

"Gosh, Chester," she whispered through her teeth as she leaned to the side incrementally, "Don't make it obvious!"

"Make what obvious?" Chester asked back without moving his mouth. He raised his eyes and noticed that Wingnut had sat back down across from him and was watching him carefully.

Perhaps a freeze frame at this instant and a bit of explanation would be necessary here. Pardon the pause in the narrative, but there are names being bantied about with no descriptions attached; Presumably much confusion will soon follow unless all present are described in one go. Veronica, Chester's friend since kindergarten, is a good old-fashioned country girl. She wears her long back hair down most of the time and gives off the impression of being very large and round and yet somehow not fat; Perhaps this is because it embodies her enthusiastic and bubbly personality, and nothing says bubbles like a big round shape, vis-a-vis, her body.

The boy sitting across from Chester with the trenchcoat and dirty grin on his face holding his bottle up as in a toast was a bit more mysterious; Rumoured to have killed his parents and ate their corpses (amongst other things) he was known as a professional thief and yet excelled at his work place, that of (ironically enough) the first convenience store he'd ever stolen from. It was said that the owner had finally had enough of Wingnut duping his employees left and right and hired him on for advice.

He was the muscular bad-boy type that typically picked on other weaker and thinner (or fatter) boys in his youth that he decided he'd like to torment for some reason or another (but which was probably because he had a major crush on them and had no idea how to express himself.) Getting a job and living on his own had seemed to change him gradually, and over the years as other elementary schools fed into their middle school and other middle schools fed into their high school he and Chester had become inextricably close, in the way you only can when you've come from the same background.

If you'll shift your eyes slightly past Chester's left shoulder you'll see Amy and Brad; Brad being the tiny, brilliantly handsome, and obviously self-absorbed one, currently examining Amy's recent manicure for defects. Amy is the Hip-Hop fashion queen with her nails extended as if she were royalty. They'd be a match made in heaven if not for the fact that Brad made extra money from a Sugar Daddy old enough to be his great-grandfather and Amy was currently fighting off an embarassing herpes outbreak she'd gotten as a parting gift from her ex-boyfriend. And finally, there was Roxy, the one completely at peace with her surroundings. She fancied herself the leader of the group (although everyone seemed to have come together merely because they all went to the same schools) and that really should tell you all you need to know about her personality.

Well, now that that's all taken care of-

"Is he still looking at me?" Chester whispered.

"No," Veronica said.

Chester took the chance and glanced upwards and across the flames, watching transfixed as Wingnut strained to get the cork out of his bottle of cider. The flames cast deep shadows on his face and exposed neck, which in conjunction with the muscular strain he was obviously undergoing did strange and funny things to Chester's insides.

"Are you alright Chester?" Roxy asked him. His eyes snapped to her at breakneck speed.

"Just fine," he said, grinning embarassedly and tugging at his collar. "Just a bit hot, that's all."

"It's like sixty degrees out, and you're hot?"

"Proximity to the fire," Chester blurted out. "Just a bit too close, I promise."

"Well," she said gravely, "I just want you to know that if you want to speak to me about anything I'm willing to be discreet and quiet about it." Chester nodded solemnly.

"I know I can always trust you, Roxy," he said seriously. Mentally he added 'As far as I can throw you.' This was, in part, due to an incident in Spanish class back in third grade where Chester had a grimace upon his face. She asked nicely 'Why, what's wrong, Chester?' and he replied he was having a bit of rectal-area incontinence. Whereupon she sang the 'Tu Glutea est Occupado' song, which she made up off the top of her head. There was even a dance number that she created on the spot; This routine became a popular hit at East Hammington Elementary, and was noted in the yearbook. It was even performed by their Music Teacher at their Fifth Grade End of Year Promotion. With a troupe of dancers and the back-up Choral group.

Chester could hold a grudge, but only on things that mattered. Like that.

Roxy looked at him and frowned, but then moved to join Brad and Amy's conversation about hair colors.

"You're good at lying," Veronica whispered.

"Years of practice," Chester said. "You wouldn't believe the things I've spewed in my time."

"Oh, yes I would," Veronica said. "You remember that time with the principal and the frogs?"

"Oh God," he moaned, "I'd forgotten about that."

It was Eighth grade- Biology Class was dissecting frogs, and someone had forgotten to mention they were already dead to our plucky hero. He and Veronica took it upon themselves to rescue the poor things, only to realize they had a bucket full of preservative and dead amphibians in the hallway. Which was when Mrs. Buxley had stumbled upon them.

"What are you doing?" she asked in arch tones, scorn coating each word.

Feeling Veronica tremble behind him, Chester smiled wide and let loose with a verbal barrage of falsehoods so intricate, complicated, and multi-faceted that Mrs. Buxley completely went blank.

He didn't remember exactly what he said, but it had to do with the solution of embalming fluid going through a process of oxidation combined with the alloy known commonly as stainless steel (the core component of the dissection tools known as scalpels) causing a chemical reaction that, in addition to a diet comprising mainly of nitrogen (such as one rich in beetles and other insects) caused blindness in human beings.

"And what does that have to do with you bringing it into the hall?" she asked nastily.

"The Vitamin D from sunlight counteracts the oxidation, of course," he said immediately, smiling wide.

She looked down her nose at them, her eyes quivering with rage, and turned and walked away. As soon as she had turned a corner Veronica fainted dead away.

Eventually the mists of reminiscence cleared from his vision and his eyes fell upon Wingnut's hands. Still wreathing and writhing about on the neck of the bottle. With the tendons and the muscularity and the absolute large strong maleness of them.

Chester unglued his eyes after a moment or two and coughed at the ground.

"Would you look at that," Veronica said. "It's a shame that a strong man like him can't even open a corked bottle. Maybe you should help him out?"

"Are you joking?" Chester asked. "If he can't do it-"

"You've opened your bottle, Chester. Quite easily for yourself."

Feeling as if he was resigned to his fate he snarled "I despise you, my dear," in acid tones.

She just smiled at him.

Chester got to his feet and stretched a bit, then walked over to him.

"D'you need some help?" he asked.

"A bit, yeah," Wingnut said in the gravelly tones he had. "We don't all have forearms like Brad over there." There was a merry tone in his voice.

Chester grinned and Wingnut grinned back.

They looked into each other's eyes.

"I'll just help you open it then, shall I?" Chester said in a shaky voice as he broke contact.

"Awesome," Wingnut said.

The bottle was passed, and Chester (with two short tugs) got the cork out.

"You certainly are strong," Wingnut said mysteriously.

You certainly are mysterious, Chester thought. As he went to pass the bottle back the firelight illuminated the label.

"Grape?" Chester asked in a disbelieving tone.

"I like the taste of purple things too," he said, grinning.

Chester looked down at him.

There was a wink.

Chester passed back the bottle and their fingers brushed and then he quickly sat himself down across the fire, feeling the other boy's warmth still lingering on the pads of his digits.

"Now you know I don't say this lightly, Chester," Veronica said quietly. "But you're a pussy."

His scathing reply was cut off by Roxy tapping a spoon against her bottle.

"This meeting of the Sunday Club has officially started. As the Unofficial Head I would like to say that I'm entirely excited about our Senior year. Who's with me?"

Brad and Amy raised their hands excitedly. Veronica shrugged one shoulder noncomittally and across the fire Wingnut caught Chester's eye and then rolled his in her direction. Chester grinned despite himself.

"I for one am more than ready for October, by the way. How about you all?"

"Definitely," Veronica said.

"I'm going as Marilyn Monroe," Brad said.

"You've certainly got the hair," Wingnut said.

Brad grinned, taking it as a compliment. However, at the mention of cross-dressing Chester remembered his prior commitments.

"Well shite," he said suddenly. "Halloween's on a Sunday this year, isn't it?"

"Yup," Amy said.

"Gah," he said. "I've got the part of Frankenfurter in the Rocky Horror Show. Opening night's Halloween."

"You could always skip out early so we can go Trick or Treating," Wingnut said.

"Our very last year," Roxy said solemnly.

"Yeah!" Brad said. "You'd be in costume already, so it wouldn't be an issue."

"True," Chester said. "But the cast party..."

"Cast party?" Amy pouted. "Over us?"

Chester rolled his eyes.

"Fine then. I'll laugh and rub elbows a little and then hightail it out of there. You all are going to come and watch, aren't you?"

"Sure. Because you know, it's not like I had any other plans," Brad said in tones indicating he did.

"Well, most of the really cool parties don't start until really late. So yeah," Amy said.

"I'm managing the lights, so I have to be there," Veronica said.

"I've got nothing better to do," Roxy said.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," said Wingnut, in tones that seemed to echo over them all.

"Well then I guess the plans are all set," Roxy said. "On to more important things, what are we going to do for a Sunday activity this October?" To her surprise everyone shrugged at once.

"Well, we still have time," she said. "If anyone thinks of something bring it. In the meantime the official part of the meeting is over. Everyone have fun."

Brad had brought a packet of hot dogs and assorted condiments and Amy had thoughtfully provided six sanitary spearing devices. Somehow during Roxy's short but to the point speech a package of marshmallows materialized somewhere near Chester's left foot. These he held out, expecting someone to claim them. Oddly, noone seemed to care so they were divided amongst the crowd. Roxy had suddenly developed a look of superiority on her face when he waved them around but since that was how she normally looked he couldn't be sure she had planted them. Someone had raised the subject of celebrity perms (probably Brad) and everyone was playing a game of mock-up 'Perm-ades,' in which you did your hair up in a certain fashion and everyone had to guess. Brad (obviously) was the one whose scalp everyone was examining.

"Jim Carrey circa 1992!" Amy and Veronica screamed in unison.

"Rats!" Brad said angrily.

Roxy was contributing a great deal, and strangely avoiding Chester and Wingnut both. In fact, she was trying to keep everyone else 'in the zone' with the game and thus encouraged the rivalry between Amy and Veronica. This was not hard to do- They were as different as night and day. Amy was the caucasian child of countrified farmers; Veronica's parents came over from Haiti and made it big as brokers.

Chester was perched comfortably upon a log a ways back from the game and watching, occasionally roasting a marshmallow.

"You've got a bit of white stuff on your lip," Wingnut said as he sat next to him. The log moved a little as he folded his legs into place.

"You're disturbing my seat," Chester said tensely as he hurriedly wiped his nose.

"Sorry about that," Wingnut said.

There was a silence that descended upon the both of them as they watched the game together.

"Well, I'm waiting," Chester said in a stressed voice.

"For what?" Wingnut asked, honestly confused.

"The inevitable innuendo."

"I wasn't planning on saying a word," Wingnut said. He held up two fingers. "Scout's honor."

"You never were a boy scout."

"Gasp! I have been found out!" he said in a tone of mock horror.

The silence this time around was filled with a warm comfort.

"Have a marshmallow," Chester said reluctantly.

"Thanks," said Wingnut.

"I'm all dissapointed now," Chester revealed.

"What for?"

"I was all keyed up and ready for a game of verbal parrying and now you're all not making fun of me. What's up with that?" There was a teasing note to his voice.

"I don't know. It might disrupt the log."

"Using my own words against me?" Chester asked in mock concern.

"I wasn't talking about this thing we're sitting on," Wingnut said, and winked.

Chester flushed.

"You were just waiting until I let my guard down, weren't you?" Chester asked, half-laughing.

"You look cute when you're flustered," Wingnut said. "You get all bashful and embarassed. That's why I always used to tease you, you know. I liked it when you got all embarassed."

"Nice to finally know why you've tortured me my entire life," Chester said. There was a sudden stoniness to his voice.

"Hey, I'm not the one that made a musical number inspired from your fit of intestinal blockage," Wingnut said.

"No," Chester said. "You just tormented me daily."

His body stiffened suddenly, and the air between them seemed to chill to below zero.

"Would it help if I said I can't change the past?"

"Maybe," Chester said icily.

"Can you honestly think of the last time I actually made fun of you in front of other people?"

"Sure," Chester said, a firey passion burning in his voice. "Just last..."

The fire died as he searched for memories and sorted them by 'personal, private humiliation' and 'public humiliation,' finding the latter lacking.

"Last... er... Um... Right," Chester said, changing tracks as he lost steam. "So you've privately tormented me."

"And when have those been actually making fun of you or beating you up?"

"Are you kidding me?" Chester asked. "What was with the Grape Cider comment?"

"A not-so-subtle way of flirting, I should have thought. Although I probably should have realized you'd think I was making fun of you." There was a frown on his face. "Sorry," he said suddenly, sounding entirely sad. "Sometimes you just don't realize what kind of effect you have on a person."

His posture was slumped forward, his face angled towards the dirt and cradled in his left hand, as if the sudden realization of his being an asshole as a kid had given him a swift kick in the nuts. Which was pretty accurate, actually, Chester thought to himself.

"Quit moping and have another marshmallow," Chester said.

He patted Wingnut on the back of his right hand and then tentatively left it there.

His hand turned upwards and held Chester's.

"So," said Chester.

"So?" asked Wingnut.

"As in, 'So what's next?"

"Sometimes worrying about the future is needed," Wingnut said, "And sometimes it isn't. So can we, right now, just enjoy ourselves before one or the other of us makes a comment that the other doesn't like?"

"I think so," said Chester.

They watched the game.

"John Leguizamo in 'To Wong Foo!'" Amy and Veronica yelled in stereo.

They looked at each other and then pounced.

Both boys on the log laughed.

Chester snuck in at about four in the morning to find his father passed out in the recliner. At the sound of the lock clicking back into place he snorted and woke up, half-plastered.

" 'Zat you, Chester?" he asked blearily.

"Yeah, Dad, it's me," he whispered.

"Where've you been?"

"Talking and holding hands with my former life-long archenemy," he said truthfully.

"Tha's nice. You know, I just want you to be happy."

"You're drunk, aren't you?"

"Just a little," he said. "Your mother threw a Dinner Party and I had a bit too much wine. She's kicked me onto the couch."

"I love you, Dad," Chester said and kissed him on the forehead.

His Dad nodded and fell back to sleep.

Chester took the steps two at a time and laid in bed, feeling the warmth of the other boy's hand in his hand still, and fell asleep.

The fluid in the basin was a thick goopy crimson, boiling on its own. With a jolt of disgust, Chester realized it was blood, and that it was overflowing in a stream that swirled before it hit the desk in mid-air, collecting in a maroon cloud. The basin itself was a bizarre emerald color and inlaid with rubies and diamonds so that it looked like an endless swirling universe emblazoned into it.

He looked around and realized he was in an exact duplicate of his ninth-grade phys-sci class, minus any power. He could even see the pencil in the ceiling above the desk in the gloomy darkness, the one from the infamous Post-Christmas Pop Quiz during which not one person had gotten above a D and Mr. Byrne was so frustrated he threw his pencil upwards.

(Except for me,) Chester thought to himself. (I passed that one, and never lived it down...)

Except he knew it couldn't be the phys-sci class, because they'd remodeled that part of the building entirely. Roxy told him specifically when the pencil had finally fallen down. It had been an extremely solemn moment. And that was only a year after they'd had that class, and now... Well, he was in the first month of his final year now. It had been almost four years since then. His school history had seemed to fly, but he knew where he was in time. Which meant only one thing-

OF COURSE THIS IS A DREAM, CHESTER

The words slammed through the air and into his head like a sledgehammer. The written sentence was scrawled onto the blackboard with the swirling blood-cloud as the voice spoke. The gore bubbled and evaporated off like water, misting back into the basin as each word was finished, restarting the cycle as the voice spoke again.

YOU ARE HERE TO WITNESS THIS PROCESS. DO YOU SEE THAT THE BLOOD SPEAKS? WE ARE THE BLOOD, CHESTER. I AM THE BLOOD OF THE INNOCENTS. WHEN YOU HEAR MY CRY YOU LEARN.

The thought occured to Chester (in a hilariously-panicked breathless laughter) that whatever he was going to learn would have to be incredibly important, because he had never been so scared in a dream and hadn't woken up. The skin all along the back of his neck had prickled up and was bristling like there was someone behind him and he felt watched on all sides. He'd never really understood why in all the horror movies people got scared and pissed all over themselves, because he was as frightened as he'd ever been and try as he might his entire body had locked up, including his bladder.

YOUR FEAR IS UNDERSTANDABLE, BECAUSE YOU ARE SEEING WHAT TRULY IS. TELL ME, CHESTER, WHY DO YOU THINK A CHILD IS SO FRIGHTENED OF BEING BY THEMSELVES?

"They see monsters and things that don't exist," Chester said.

WRONG. THEY SEE TRUTH. CHILDREN HAVE AN ANNOYING HABIT OF POINTING THINGS OUT THAT ADULTS WOULD RATHER DISMISS. DO YOU AGREE?

"Well, yes, actually," Chester said. "Can't stand them myself."

AND YET YOU ARE BARELY MORE THAN A CHILD YOURSELF. YOU HAVE ALLOWED YOURSELF TO BE COSSETTED IN THE ENTIRELY SMALL AMOUNT OF KNOWLEDGE YOU HAVE ABOUT THE WORLD, ASSUMING YOU KNOW ALL THERE IS TO KNOW. IN SO DOING YOU HAVE DESTROYED YOUR CHANCES OF LEARNING MORE INFORMATION ABOUT ANYTHING.

It was stupid, Chester knew, but he was angry with whatever was talking. Blood from a bowl was presuming to know everything about him. The indignity, unjustness, and entirely unfair bizarreness of everything welled up inside him deep underneath his ribcage and though he wanted to shout, he didn't. His bladder was still, however, locked tighter than a cell in Alcatraz.

AND YET YOU STILL KNOW WHEN TO REFRAIN FROM SPEAKING AND HOW TO LISTEN. THAT IS AN ART THAT MANY THROW BY THE WAYSIDE AS THEY GET OLDER, NOT EVEN BOTHERING TO TRIFLE WITH OTHER TRAINS OF THOUGHT, SECURE IN THE KNOWLEDGE THAT THEY KNOW THE 'ONE TRUE WAY.' YOU ARE NOT ENTIRELY WITHOUT CAUSE, AS I HAD SAID BEFORE. OFTEN PEOPLE STOP LISTENING WHEN THEY ARE INSULTED (AS I TAKE IT YOU FELT YOU WERE) AND ALLOW THE INSULT TO CREATE A BARRIER BETWEEN THE SPEAKER AND THEMSELVES, REFUSING TO EVEN ALLOW A STRAY THOUGHT TO INFILTRATE THEIR DEFENSES AGAINST THE HARSH REALITIES OF THE WORLD. DO YOU KNOW WHY ADULTS DESPISE IT WHEN CHILDREN POINT OUT THE TRUTH?

"It makes them uncomfortable?" Chester hazarded.

EXACTLY. AS WE GROW OLDER, WE ARE ABLE TO CONVINCE OURSELVES THAT WE ARE WITHOUT BLAME AND FAULT, THUS LEADING TO AN IMPERFECT, SKEWED VERSION OF THE WORLD. OFTEN PEOPLE SEE THE WORLD THROUGH THEIR OWN CAREFULLY PATTERNED LAYER OF LIES, INTERPRETTING WHAT THEY SHOULD INTERPRET AS SOMETHING ENTIRELY DIFFERENT. WHEN SOMEONE AS GORMLESS AND AS INNOCENT AS A CHILD POINTS OUT A GLARING TRUTH IT IS AN UNCOMFORTABLE THING BECAUSE THEY ARE FORCED TO FACE THE REALITY OF THE SITUATION. TRUTH IS FRIGHTENING TO AN ADULT, BECAUSE THEY ARE SUDDENLY FACE TO FACE WITH REALITY. DO YOU UNDERSTAND, CHESTER?

"I think I do," he said hesitantly. "Truth is frightening only because it is reality, right?"

WONDERFUL. THUS YOU COULD SAY THAT REALITY IS FRIGHTENING. AND KNOWLEDGE, WHICH IS AN UNDERSTANDING OF THE CURRENT REALITY, IS FRIGHTENING AS WELL. OFTEN THIS IS BECAUSE WE ARE SCARED OF THE MONSTERS THAT DO LURK OUT THERE. AND THIS FEAR, THIS FEAR OF KNOWLEDGE, THIS LEADS TO MANY PEOPLE'S DOWNFALL.

This was about the time when Chester started developing a small migraine right between his eyes. However, he said nothing, knowing it would be hopeless in any case.

WHAT DO YOU KNOW OF PROPHECIES? the blood asked.

"They're generally self-fulfilling," Chester said sarcastically. The knot of pain was slowly, ever so slowly expanding in minute detail. "At least a lot of the Greek ones, anyway."

YOU ARE CORRECT. WHAT PEOPLE DO NOT REALIZE IS THAT OFTEN PROPHECY FORETELLS THEM HEARING IT IN THE FIRST PLACE. HOWEVER, PROPHECY HAS AN AMAZINGLY INACCURATE PERCENTAGE. THIS IS OFTEN BECAUSE PEOPLE DO NOT REALIZE THAT THEY CAN OVERRIDE IT BY MAKING THEIR OWN PROPHECY.

"Wha?" said Chester. The pain was growing, almost touching both eyes. He could feel his eyesockets thumping with pain.

A PROPHECY IS A STATEMENT ABOUT THE FUTURE. THIS IS ALL IT IS. THERE IS NO GUARANTEE THAT THIS STATEMENT WILL BE APPLICABLE TO THE POINT IN TIME ABOUT WHICH IT IS MADE. THIS IS BECAUSE EVERYONE HAS THEIR OWN VERSION OF THE FUTURE, AND IT IS ENTIRELY USELESS TO GUESS WHICH ONE WILL COME OUT ON TOP. THAT IS A FUTILE EFFORT. WHAT ONE CAN DO, HOWEVER, TO ASSURE THAT THEIR VERSION OF THE FUTURE IS THE MOST ACCURATE, IS TO RESEARCH THE PAST.

"Go fig," Chester said in a pained voice. "How do you reckon?"

WHEN YOU GET HUNGRY, WHAT DO YOU ENVISION?

"I don't know, making a sandwich or something."

SINCE THERE IS NO OTHER PERSON TO INTERFERE WITH THE FUTURE IN WHICH YOU EAT A SANDWICH THEN IT BECOMES REALITY. BUT LET US SAY, FOR INSTANCE, THAT YOUR... FATHER... WANTS A PIZZA. THEN THOSE REALITIES CONVERGE, AND FIGHT FOR DOMINANCE. WILL YOU STILL MAKE A SANDWICH, OR BE FORCED TO EAT THE PIZZA?

"I wouldn't be forced to eat it," Chester said. The pain was just expanding to behind his eyes as well. "I'd eat it willingly."

THAT IS A PART OF IT AS WELL. SOMETIMES WE ENJOY OTHERS' VERSION OF THE FUTURE AND ADOPT THEM AS OUR OWN. THIS EMPOWERS THAT FUTURE AND MAKES IT COME THAT CLOSER TO REALITY. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?

"Somewhat," he admitted.

IMAGINE YOU WANTED THE SANDWICH INSTEAD.

"Dad would say I'm nuts."

I BELIEVE HE WOULD. HE IS QUITE DULL. BUT, IF YOU DID WANT THE SANDWICH, YOU WOULD HAVE TO FIGHT TO HAVE YOUR VERSION OF THE FUTURE SINCE HE WOULD FORCE YOU TO HAVE PIZZA, YES?

"That sounds about right. He needs me as an excuse to pig out."

INDEED. YOU CAN STILL HAVE THE SANDWICH, BUT YOU WOULD MOST LIKELY HAVE TO PULL OUT RECEIPT BOOKS AND OTHER SUCH DEVICES SUCH AS WALLETS TO SHOW HIM THAT YOU HAVEN'T THE MONEY FOR PIZZA. OR SHOULDN'T BE SPENDING THE MONEY. OR HE SHOULD BE WATCHING HIS CHOLESTEROL.

"You don't know my Dad," Chester said. "He'd make me eat pizza. Not that I'd mind."

THE POINT IS YOU CAN STILL HAVE YOUR VERSION OF THE FUTURE COME TRUE, DO YOU SEE? EVEN IF YOU HAVE TO PLUNGE A DAGGER INTO HIS HEART, EVEN IF THAT'S WHAT IT TAKES, YOU CAN STILL HAVE THAT SANDWICH.

"Like I said, I'd rather have the pizza. But what if we're out of bread?"

YOU CAN GO TO THE STORE AND BUY SOME.

"What if I had no money?"

YOU COULD STEAL IT.

"What if (God-forbid) we had a famine and there was no bread anywhere?" The conversation was tipping into ridiculousness and the pain started moving faster, so much so that it felt as if his entire brain were boiling.

PROPER KNOWLEDGE OF THE WORLD AROUND YOU AND THE SOMEWHAT IMMEDIATE PAST WOULD HAVE GIVEN YOU THE INTELLIGENT FORESIGHT TO STOCK UP ON BREAD AND/OR THE SUPPLIES NECESSARY TO MAKE YOUR OWN IN A BREAD MACHINE, SUCH AS THE ONE YOUR STEP-MOTHER OWNS THAT YOU ARE CLUELESS ABOUT WHICH IS IN THE CABINET NEXT TO THE STOVE. THIS IS HOW KNOWLEDGE CAN BRING ABOUT THE COMPLETION OF YOUR VERSION OF THE FUTURE, DESPITE DISADVANTAGES IN THE PRESENT IN THE FORM OF SUPPOSED OBSTACLES. THE FUTURE AS YOU SEE IT CAN ALWAYS BE OBTAINED. SOMETIMES THIS MUST BE DONE BY THE SLITTING OF A FEW THROATS.

"Seems like an awful lot of trouble for a sandwich," Chester said.

EXACTLY. SOMETIMES THERE ARE FUTURES THAT ARE JUST NOT IMPORTANT ENOUGH TO GET IN TROUBLE OVER. AND TO PREVENT HAVING TO RELY ON SHEER BRUTALITY TO MAKE YOUR VERSION OF EVENTS THE TRUE FUTURE YOU MUST RELY ON YOUR NATURAL ABILITY TO SHUT THE HELL UP WHEN YOU WANT TO TALK AND JUST LISTEN AND TAKE IN INFORMATION. AND IT IS AGGRAVATING, I KNOW, BUT IN ORDER TO BECOME THE MASTER OF YOUR OWN FUTURE, YOUR OWN PERSONAL FUTURE, YOU MUST LEARN ABOUT YOUR OWN PERSONAL PAST.

The pain in his brain was an agonizing fire now, so much so that he could barely comprehend what the blood was saying.

EVERYONE HAS BITS AND PIECES OF THEIR PAST THAT THEY ARE UNFAMILIAR WITH, BUT YOU IN PARTICULAR HAVE A GAPING VOID OF KNOWLEDGE WHEN IT COMES TO FAMILIAL CONCERNS. I BELIEVE THIS IS IN PART TO YOUR MOTHER DYING WHEN YOU WERE AT SUCH A YOUNG AGE. TERRIBLE THINGS HAPPEN SOMETIMES THAT ARE BEYOND OUR CONTROL AS WELL- OUR OWN FUTURES WILL NOT HOLD UP IF THEY GO AGAINST A NATURAL LAW. THIS IS THE WAY OF THINGS, ALTHOUGH THERE ARE TIMES WHEN YOU CAN CHANGE THE NATURAL LAWS... BUT I WILL NOT SPEAK OF THAT NOW. I'M GOING TO SHOW YOU SOMETHING, CHESTER, AND IT IS YOUR FUTURE. YOU MAY NOT BE ABLE TO TAKE IT, BUT AS THINGS ARE GOING AS THEY ARE AT PRESENT, THIS IS GOING TO BE WHAT HAPPENS.

"But who are you?" he asked desperately. Blackness was seeping in on all edges.

YOUR MOTHER WAS A FINE WOMAN, AND IT IS A SHAME THAT HER ENTIRE FAMILY HAD DIED BEFORE SHE WENT. INCLUDING HER BROTHER. THE STORY OF YOUR FAMILY IS AN ENTIRELY INTERESTING ONE, AND WOULD TAKE UP MANY A NIGHT'S WORTH OF RESEARCH.

"You're... You're not my uncle, are you?" he asked. The blackness was creeping closer.

I'VE ALREADY TOLD YOU WHO I AM. I AM NOT YOUR UNCLE, BUT I AM WHAT YOU SEE BEFORE YOU. NOW BE QUIET AND WATCH.

The basin of blood was completely calm now; No longer bubbling, its surface was as calm and serene as a lake on a chilly dawn. But then something swirled inside as the darkness came into the back of Chester's head, and a hand slid up silently through the crimson fluid, nails varnished black, strong and heavily knotted with muscles and tendons all up and down the fingers. And as it groped the side of the basin and pulled itself out, blood dripping onto the desk below, its ragged stump was clear for all to see.

The blood in the basin began boiling as if grease in a deep fryer.

Chester passed out.

And back in the land of the living, he had a seizure.