FML Contest

Title: Basements, Batman and the Art of Quiet Flip-Flops

Pen name: PerfectlyPersuasive

Characters: Edward, Carlisle & Esme

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. I can also guarantee you I didn't make any money.

To see the rest of the entries in this contest, please visit the FML C2: http://www . fanfiction . net/community/FML_Contest_Fics/77195/ (remove spaces for link to work)


Taking one more deep breath, Edward Cullen pushes open the back door to his home and tip-toes across the linoleum masking as Italian marble. Edward is a smart boy, but he has the tendency to not think things all the way through. In the same sense, he childishly trusts in his flip-flops to not flip or flop, despite their noisy name. Using his intelligence, though, he deduces that a quiet journey can be had by scrunching up his toes and locking his plastic shoes in place.

"ESME, GET YOUR ASS DOWN HERE!"

Freezing at the sound of his father's voice, Edward holds his breath, thinking that his panicked breathing is the sound his father is sure to hear. Seconds later, he reconsiders his plan. Sure, cutting off one's breathing may make you more quiet in theory, but in practice you may also lose consciousness. Edward smartly, of course, chooses to not make himself pass out.

His head snaps to the place he's trying to reach – the sanctuary that he longs for. In the gold-plated kitchen, Edward reaches his hand out toward the door in yearning. He's so close to his goal. It's only five steps away!

He wants to make a run for it. It's all he can think about, but if you've already forgotten, Edward Cullen is a smart boy. He knows that running will be the quickest way he's discovered. Never before has Edward hated his flip-flops. He curses them now for their predominance to flipping and flopping.

"WHY DON'T CHA COME UP HERE, SUGAR LIPS?"

His mother's squeaky yell floats down to Edward ears from upstairs. He lets out a silent sigh of relief. He listens for footsteps none the less, but all he hears is the quiet motorized whir as his father makes his way through the living room to the bottom of the stairs.

Edward knows that if his father is at the bottom of the stairs, his mother will be coming down them shortly. Then, there are only two rooms and a hallway separating his parents from them. He has this all calculated down to an art form. It takes two seconds for each room and three seconds for the hallway, giving him seven seconds plus the four seconds it will take his mother to descend the stairs. Edward, therefore, has eleven seconds, so he really can't stand there wasting any more time by doing math in his head. There is only one option now. He's going to have to make a run for it. Edward, of course, is aware that by running, his shoes will flip and flop. Let us not forget, as it has been mentioned before, Edward is a smart boy. He is taking honor classes, after all. There is just nothing he can do about his noisy shoes now.

A sneakier person would note that it might be best to take off the offensive footwear and continue on bare feet, but Edward, though book smart, can overlook the simple solutions. So, today, for Edward Cullen, he will be running in flip-flops.

"YOU KNOW THE RASCAL CAN'T GO UP STAIRS!"

His father's shout is the last thing Edward hears as he shuts the basement door behind him.

He's safe once again.

Edward carefully walks down the dark but familiar stairs. He spends a lot of time down here, so he knows his way around. Everyday after school, like today, it is his goal to sneak inside the house and down to the basement without being discovered by his parents. Some days he makes it.

Some days he doesn't.

Edward Cullen does not like those days.

Last Wednesday, for example, he was discovered immediately in the kitchen by his mother who then made him help his father out of his Rascal and onto the toilet... then back into the Rascal again.

No, Edward is definitely not a fan of those days.

Once there are no more stairs to step down, Edward blindly, with his hands out in front feeling for any, new obstacle in his way, walks to the back corner of the basement. He reaches out in the dark for the Batman lamp he sneaked down to the basement years ago. Who cares if someone is fifteen and still has a Batman lamp and comforter? His mother cared; that's for sure.

But, Edward foiled her plans of donating it to Goodwill by moving it down to his hideout. Thankfully, he did because it has been his constant companion in the eerie basement these past two years. Every day, he is grateful for the cutout bat signal on the lampshade and the way it lights up his dark corner with a giant bat signal against the wall.

Over the years, Edward has come to think of the basement as his own personal bat cave. He is happy that there are no actual bats, of course. Edward Cullen, though intelligent, is not a fan of rodents, the flying or scurrying kind. There are many mouse traps in his bat cave for that very reason.

Sadly, Edward knows this his bat cave does not rival the one of Bruce Wayne. Although, in his opinion, Edward Cullen can do a pretty awesome imitation of Christian Bale. His raspy whisper voice is very raspy and very whispery.

Even though he has the voice down, Edward Cullen is no Batman. Batman, unlike Edward, is an orphan. He fights the injustice of his parent's murder. Edward just fights the injustice of being born to such embarrassing parents.

It's not even close to the same thing.

With a sigh, Edward bends his knees, preparing for the familiar plop into his gold, corduroy beanbag chair that escaped Goodwill just like his Batman lamp. He needs to get his homework done because smart boys always do their homework, but without the quiet of the basement, it's impossible for him to do his homework at home. Luckily, his eyes have adjusted well to the darkness over the years.

True, Edward can no longer go outside on bright days for fear of setting his retinas on fire, but that is the price one must pay for a bat cave.

Though, avoiding the sun does make living in Las Vegas more difficult.

Edward lets go and falls back, prepared to plop down into the soft, comforting goodness that is his beloved bean bag chair. He is unprepared, though, for the hard, cold concrete that is the basement floor. Edward Cullen falls hard onto his tailbone, and he's confused and in pain.

These are two of Edward's least favorite things.

He stands up, rubbing his bottom as his eyes roam for his beanbag chair. Quickly, because of his high intellect, he determines that it is nowhere to be seen.

What the french toast? he thinks. Where is Mr. Beanbagchair?

Edward, not being the most imaginative child, yet lonely, named most of his belongings. If it weren't for Mr. Beanbagchair, Mr. Batmanlamp and Mrs. Computer, life would have been much harder. He could always count on his friends... until today.

Sighing, he looks around the basement once more, but he cannot see much further than four feet for that is the surface area that his lamp shines upon. He debates giving up and going back upstairs, but Edward catches the bat signal out of the corner of his eye. He nods to himself. Batman would never give up!

Edward Cullen will not give up, either.

He darts into the dark, like Batman on the search for the Joker, quickly locating his target – a heavy box for him to sit upon. Using his brain, for if you've forgotten once more, Edward is smart, he decides to push down on the top of the box with all of his weight to check it's stability. When it withstands the abuse and doesn't collapse, he wrestles the box over to his corner. The moment the box is encompassed in the glow of his bat signal, he smiles triumphantly.

Edward, high on his bravery and Batman daydreams, places his fists on his hips, taking a super hero stance. His theme music plays in his head. Once again, he has saved the day. If Edward Cullen had a butler, this is the moment when his trusty servant would be very proud.

With a content sigh, he's ready to sit down in his new seat. It may not be the soft, comforting goodness that is Mr. Beanbagchair, but it is much better than the hard, cold concrete that is the basement floor. You would think this, as well, if you were as intelligent as Edward Cullen.

Though, Edward is smart, which you might have already heard, he can also be foolish. Ask anyone and they will tell you that pushing on something with all the force of your hands is not going to equal to you sitting on it with all the weight of your entire body. Such is the case of this particular box.

For when Edward Cullen places his bottom on the top of the box, the plastic makes a loud cracking sound. In the silence of the basement, the noise piques Edward's interest. Curiosity, they say, killed the cat. On this particular day, though, curiosity makes the boy crash through the lid of the box.

No felines, it is important to note, have been harmed during the writing of this story.

Edward, with the curiosity mentioned above, lifts one leg off the ground, testing the strength of the creaking plastic. He smiles when nothing happens. Then, with the curiosity that makes him crash through the lid, he lifts his other leg, leaving him completely dependent on the box below him.

The box, not being used to its integrity being compromised by a teenaged boy, groans in protest.

It is only a moment before the crack turns into a full blown crater and Edward Cullen, who was once on top of the box, can now be found inside the box. His legs and arms stick out above, and he wiggles them around helplessly. This is not the type of predicament a smart boy like Edward normally finds himself in.

He's glad his classmates in his honors classes are not around to see him at this moment.

Gripping the edge of the box with both hands, Edward manages to push himself out and to his feet. He runs over to the wall, letting his lamp cast the bat signal over his entire body and checks for blood. There is none, of course. Plastic, though it can be jagged, is not glass. There is not even a scratch on Edward Cullen's body.

He pulls back his foot to kick the now stupid box, but reconsiders this plan. He is wearing flip-flops, after all. They offer no protection against plastic boxes or anything really. Edward Cullen cleverly looks out for his toes' well being and puts his foot back firmly on the ground.

Edward Cullen, though smart and still with use of all his toes, is not happy. Once again, he's back to his original predicament – there is nowhere to sit.

It's all this stupid box's fault, he thinks, walking back to it so he can glare at it properly.

Edward is, of course, astute enough to know that the box doesn't care if it's getting glared at or not, but it makes Edward feel better to narrow his eyes and purse his lips.

He really commits to his mean stare. He can barely see through his narrowed eyes, and his mouth is so pursed he can feel every crease in his lips. Though, any person of slight intelligence knows that if you don't commit to a mean stare, it's not even worth doing.

Edward Cullen, he thinks in a raspy whisper voice, will show you who's boss.

Through his limited vision, something inside the now hated box still manages to catch his attention. Unnarrowing his eyes and unpursing his lips, he leans in closer, but he still can't be sure the darkness of the basement isn't playing tricks on his eyes. His Batman emblem shines in the other direction, so he is lacking the light to make out exactly what is inside the box.

He hopes it's what it looks like, though.

It may have been mentioned before that Edward Cullen is a smart boy. Now, to many who read this, the first adjective that would catch the eye would be smart, but you cannot forget that Edward Cullen is also a boy and a teenaged one at that. This is the reason he snatches the object out of the box. His brain has nothing to do with it.

He is not completely without reasonable thinking, though, and before he opens the door to the kitchen, he stuffs his found goods under his shirt. Edward looks around, relieved to find the kitchen empty.

Remembering the flip-flop problem he had before, Edward scrunches his toes to prevent the flipping and flopping and tip-toes down the hallway.

"Where you been, boy?"

He stops at his father's question, spinning on his rubber heel to face the voice.

Carlisle Cullen is perched in his Rascal scooter, watching television and cleaning the meat off the bone of a fried chicken leg. He throws the bone back into the bucket and sucks his greasy, stubby fingers into his mouth before smoothing the comb-over of his equally greasy white-blond hair with the same hand. Only after his fingers are licked clean and his hair is completely hiding his baldness does he turn to his son. He whips his Rascal around dramatically, backing into the fireplace accidentally which causes his heavy, gold chains to clink together and his long comb-overed hair to fall into his eyes

"Fucking fireplace," he grumbles under his breath as he resituates his perfectly placed locks. He pulls down the front of his purple crushed velvet track suit, making sure the jacket is unzipped enough to show the top of his undershirt and at least an two inches of chest hair.

He puts his chubby finger back to the control and steers his Rascal closer to his son, stopping in the doorway.

"Where you been?" he repeats his question, staring at Edward.

"School," Edward responds automatically.

Carlisle Cullen has been around the block a time or two. In his sixty-seven years, he's picked up a few tricks. One of them is that he can tell when someone is lying. He watches his son and rubs his chins in one hand, the diamond on his pinkie ring sparkling under the florescent hallway light. With his left hand, he controls his Rascal, moving closer to Edward. When the right tire is on the very edge of his son's flip-flop, he finally stops.

Edward looks down at his foot with relief, finally unscrunching his toes. He's ecstatic his father didn't run over his foot with his scooter. It was horrible last time, and the tire mark took a whole week to fade. Edward hates the Rascal more than he hates the box that he just fell through.

Though he's old, Edward's almost positive that his father doesn't even need his motorized power chair. He's seen Carlisle walk, but it's the possibility that he may actually need it that stops Edward from pushing it down the stairs when his father is sleeping.

Well, that and the fact that it would get him in a lot of trouble.

Carlisle stares at Edward, breathing heavily through his mouth. "School?" he asks finally, merely repeating Edward's last words. His son nods. "You're lying, boy. I can tell," he wheezes. Carlisle can't stand liars. Liars seem to forget that he has been around the block a time or two. You never underestimate a man like Carlisle Cullen. At least, that's what a man like Carlisle Cullen thinks.

"I'm not," Edward insists, hoping that the item he acquired in the basement isn't showing through his shirt.

"Well, what the hell is it at school that keeps you so long there everyday?" Carlisle barks out his question, pushing a loose strand of his blond comb-over back into place. He looks his son square in the face, narrowing and pursing his lips. As it has been said before, that if you don't commit to a mean glare, it's not even worth doing.

Carlisle Cullen never half-asses anything.

Edward breaks eye contact first, turning his stare to a point on the wall above his father's seated head, and Carlisle knows he has won this round. "Tell me the truth!" He demands, snapping his dentures loudly together to show that he means business.

"I..." Edward stalls, trying to come up with something believable. Though, it may be safe to say that Edward is a smart boy, it is equally important to remember, that he's not the sneakiest person. "I was with a girl," he finally says semi-truthfully.

Carlisle's eyes light up, and he gives Edward a smarmy smile. "Heh... heh," he chuckles, his double chin quavering with each resounding sound that escapes his lips. "A girl, huh?" He nods his head in thought. This is a happy day indeed. With the way that boy stays hidden in his room and with that strange Batman obsession, Carlisle has been worrying for years that he raised a fucking sissy boy.

I should have known that someone as manly as myself could never raise a fairy, Carlisle muses to himself as he twirls his diamond pinkie ring around his stubby finger. He thinks many things after that, but they are too explicit to repeat.

"Where'd ya meet this girl?" Carlisle leers as he inches forward in his Rascal. Likewise with each inch forward, to save his toes, Edward scoots an inch backward.

"School," Edward lies. Relief rushes through him when his heels hit the stairs, and he steps up onto the bottom step. He wiggles his toes once, knowing that he has saved them again from the wrath of the wheels of the Rascal.

"You buried your dick in that pussy yet?" Carlisle asks, licking his lips suggestively. Edward cringes lightly, his eyes focused on the piece of chicken skin stuck between his father's teeth.

"Uh," Edward fumbles for something to say as he takes another step up on the staircase.

Carlisle sneers, smoothing down his mustache with his pointer finger and thumb. "Listen, boy, if they don't share the goods immediately, they ain't worth it. Nobody," he tells his son, pointing his chubby finger at him, "and I mean, nobody has a golden snatch."

He smiles at his words of wisdom, running his tongue along the bottom of his dentures to hold them in place. Edward just nods and turns tail, taking the rest of the steps two at a time. If it hasn't been mentioned before, Edward is a bright boy, and he knows when an opportunity to escape from his father arises, he should take it.

He doesn't stop until he reaches his room, the sound of his flip-flops doing precisely as their name describes resonating in the empty hallway. He opens his door, shutting it firmly behind him. Edward walks over to his bed and sits on the edge, fingering the fabric of his shirt that is stretched over the item from the basement.

He strains his ears, listening for his mother, but he can't hear her. Considering that if she was anywhere near he would be able to hear her, he takes the item out from under his shirt.

Playboy.

Being that Edward is the son of Carlisle Cullen, the retired owner of Happy Hour, a very seedy Gentleman's Club during the 1970s, you would think he would have been exposed to nudity a lot during his seventeen years.

You would be right.

Although, for the most part, Edward has not enjoyed the naked ladies he has viewed at his father's insistence. There are many reasons for this. The first and most important being that during each of these instances, his father was always sitting right next to him. Another being that though Carlisle Cullen may not have a lick of modesty in his oversized body, Edward has a lot, and he was too embarrassed to really look at any of the naked bits and pieces.

Edward, though smart, is not much of a ladies man. This is not to say he's ugly. Quite the opposite, indeed. Edward is tall with strong, sharp features, bright blue eyes and painfully attractive, messy hair. The girls at his school stare when he walks by. Edward Cullen is by far too intelligent to notice them, though.

Now, here is where you might be saying that if someone is as smart and in so many honors classes as Edward Cullen, they should know they are good looking. Normally, you would be right, but let us not forget that Edward can be very unaware of the obvious.

His crippling shyness also plays a role in his unknown Romeo status. Edward does not see the girls giving him goo goo eyes because he is steadily avoiding eye contact with the rest of the student body, especially the ones with breasts.

So, when he fell through the lid of the box in the basement, he was surprised and excited to discover what appeared to be at least fifty copies of Playboy. As mentioned before, he may be shy and bright, but Edward is still a boy.

How was he to resist?

Opening the magazine, his eyes widen at the images of the naked women. Though his father makes nasty and rude comments all the time about the female form, Edward is slightly more appreciative with his thoughts.

He also wonders if there is still some lotion left in Mrs. Lubridermbottle.

He finally gets to the centerfold, and he smiles, holding it up sideways so the page unfolds itself before his eyes. He starts at the bottom, letting his eyes roam upwards – the toes, the feet, the ankles, the shins, the knees, the thighs...

"What cha got there, baby cakes?"

His mother's girlish voice breaks into his naked woman haze, and he drops the magazine to the ground in embarrassment.

Esme Cullen watches her son from the doorway, popping her gum. She blows a giant bubble and sucks it back into her mouth. One would not presume that Nicorette gum would be good for blowing bubbles, but Esme always mixes it with strawberry Bubalicious. It's entertaining and gives her a little nicotine hit between cigarettes.

Esme Cullen, at 52 public age 39, knows what she likes, and she definitely likes nicotine.

She scratches at her forehead with her extra long false nails which are painted like American flags, forgetting for a moment that she got the tip of each nail pierced this time with a blue, red or white dangly jewel. The sparkling fake diamond on her left middle finger almost hits her in the eye, but luckily, her inch long glued on lashes protect her cornea from damage.

She flutters her eye lashes, revealing thick lines of blue eyeliner on each lid. Her blush sits heavy across her cheeks, and her mouth is traced in bright red. Now, it may seem that Esme is pursing her lips at her son, which as we know by now, makes up one half of a committed mean glare, but she cannot help the way her lips look. They've been injected to do that.

She pats the bottled-brown teased poof that sits on top of her head, making sure all the fly aways are sprayed down and the hair as a whole has that hard casing to it that she works so hard to get. It has been said before, but Esme Cullen knows what she likes, and hair spray can most definitely be added to that list.

She takes a step inside the doorway, her tall, sparkly green wedges clomp loudly in the silence of the bedroom. The inside seam of her skin tight white jean capri pants rub together, adding to the noise in Edward's fear-addled mind. Esme's hot pink spaghetti strap tank top is pulled tightly over her augmented chest, and it is only barely covered by her cropped denim jacket that she bedazzled herself.

Let's not forget that Esme Cullen knows what she likes, and anything sparkly always falls under that category.

Edward tries to kick the magazine under the bed, but he can't seem to locate it with his foot. This brings her attention back to the question she just asked her only son. Esme places her hands on her waist, making her muffin top even more pronounced and finally looks down at the dropped Playboy on the floor of Edward's bedroom.

Esme Cullen smiles.

Her son frowns.

"Have you been in the basement?" she squeals. "Was this down there?"

"Yes," he admits, hanging his head.

She claps her hands together in excitement, her nail jewelry clinging each time her hands meet. Bending at the waist, she reaches down for the magazine, exposing the top three inches of her thong. Thongs are one of those things that Esme just loves to wear. Nobody can say that Esme doesn't know what she likes.

She lets it fall open to the centerfold, and she shrieks in giddiness. "Oh my gawd," she fawns over the picture, spinning the magazine around to her surprised son's face. "Look how perky my titties were!"

Edward Cullen, who if you haven't heard, is quite intelligent; he did make a 1500 on the SAT after all. This does not always correlate with common sense, and Edward doesn't always make the best decisions. It is a truth commonly known, though, that if someone tells you to look at something, you do it without thinking. The same thing can be said for someone telling you not to look, as well. Basically, what it comes down to is that you normally look.

Edward, in this situation, follows the norm mentioned before. He most certainly should have not looked when his mother exclaimed about her "perky titties," but look he did. Then, rather quickly for his brain is quite large, he realizes what he was just doing by ogling that Playboy.

He was ogling his mother.

Edward Cullen feels sick to his stomach.

"Oh, lord in heaven," his mother sighs. "Look at my little snatch..." She chuckles, adding, "and full bush."

Esme stares dreamily into space. "I had a cooter that could snap pencils," she muses.

With this statement, a mental image unlike any other enters Edward's mind, and he knows that he will never be able to erase it. He doesn't even think Batman could withstand something as horrendous as this.

"CAR!" his mother screams as she struts to the bedroom door, her back fat jiggling with each step.

"WHAT?" Carlisle Cullen yells back from downstairs.

"GUESS WHAT EDDIE FOUND?" She hollers, turning her face back to her son to wink at him.

"QUIT FUCKING YELLING AND COME DOWN THE DAMN STAIRS TO TALK TO ME. I SWEAR IF I WASN'T IN THIS FUCKING RASCAL..." he trails off.

"Oh, lord, that sweet man," Esme Cullen chuckles as she bounces out of the room. Well, bounces as well as her knees let her; stripping is hard on the joints, of course. "He's going to be so excited to see this. We might not even need the pump tonight."

Edward stands and shuts the door behind his mother, shuddering in disgust. Edward Cullen is a bright boy which you may or may not know, but he wishes now that he could have thought his plan out a little more and locked the door.

Most of all, Edward Cullen wishes he would have never come out of the basement.

Fuck my life, Edward thinks in a raspy whisper voice.


Today, my mom walked in on me looking at a 1978 playboy. She asked if I found it in the basement. I said yes. Then, I realized she was the centerfold. FML.

Well? lol. I hope you liked it. Big thanks to Sarah, aka PhoenixRising25 for her beta skills and Jen for telling me I'm not losing my mind by writing this. Review. Vote. Have fun with these one shots that's what they're here for!