I was in the kitchen making myself a sandwich when I heard John curse loudly from the other room. In mere milliseconds I was throwing myself through the doorway and reaching for the nearest object that could reasonably be used as a weapon, which was a lamp some girl sent me in the mail and claimed it had magical powers. Now you might call my "jumping to the rescue" an overreaction or, God forbid, protectiveness over my idiot friend. I call it being prepared for all the weird fucking shit that could show up and eat your face off at any second.
Either way, it didn't matter, because it turns out John wasn't being attacked by wig monsters after all. He did, however, wear the face one makes when surprised by a pop up full of hardcore porn while innocently checking your e-mail. I know that face well. I've pulled it no less than three times in the last week because I swear, I must have picked up a virus somewhere, and now John has been eye raped by the elderly men in thongs doing questionable things with the kind of girl that often has to reassure you that she's really eighteen…
Where was I? Oh yeah. John, his chin dripping, the front of his shirt stained and soaked, a half empty beer clutched in his left hand. It appears he did the perfect spit take while I was gone, which I really would have liked to see. Now that I checked, my laptop and the majority of my desk surrounding my laptop were suspiciously shiny looking, and I felt my blood pressure rising already.
"Damn it, John," I said when I came back from the bathroom with washcloths. "You spewed all over my junk. Now it's going to be really sticky and shit." I threw one of the rags at John and dumped the rest on my desk to soak up the beer. Meanwhile, John's lips were twitching as if he was caught between laughing and saying something smart ass-ish.
He decided to do both at the same time. "Ha! That's what she said!" I punched him in the arm. "Hey, you set yourself up for that one, man."
"No more sexuality jokes," I said. "I'm not in the mood, especially since you just spit beer on my stuff. If you utter one more word that even sounds like it might have something to do with sex, I am going to kick you out, and you will either walk back to your place or sleep on the sidewalk tonight. Are we clear?"
"Okay, okay, don't get your panties in a knot," he said, trying to sound like he had the situation under control. The effect was kind of ruined by the beer still running down his face. He must have realized this because he took a moment to dry his chin and dab half heartedly at his chest. "But just know that I'm only agreeing with you because our love lives are apparently intertwined now." I was about to ask when he dumped the rags onto the floor and held up my laptop so I could see the screen.
On it was a crayon doodle of John and I… well… I use the words "having sex" loosely, because it looked like I wasn't enjoying it all that much. I remembered this from the case we investigated not too far from here; the mother of Billy, a mentally challenged boy, claimed her son could predict the future through his drawings. I had written it off as bullshit until she showed me this particular gem, and then John and I were hightailing it out of there. I just now remembered that I hadn't given him the chance to see all of the doodles, so he must have e-mailed Billy's mom and asked her to scan them for him.
I should have known. Reasonable human beings have a curious streak about a mile wide, some of the more open minded pushing two. The one labeled "John Cheese" could go to the moon and back exactly three and one forth times.
"So this is what you were so freaked out about?" John asked conversationally. "Why didn't you let me look at it? Then I wouldn't have gone through all this trouble to see the damn thing, and I never would have gotten beer all over your shit. Sorry for that, by the way."
I grimaced and began collecting the rags off the floor just as an excuse to not meet his eyes. "I didn't think you would want to look at it, John."
"Really?" He stepped closer, probably trying to show me that when I was bent over like this, my head was level with his crotch. The bastard. "Are you sure it's not some suppressed desire to get in my pants?"
I stood, gave him a stern glare, and left for the bathroom without answering him. I chucked the dirty rags into the "to be delt with later" pile and grabbed fresh ones, and when I turned back around, John was suddenly inside my personal bubble.
"Damn it!" I shouted, jumping back. "Didn't I tell you not to sneak up on me all ninja like? You know you don't make a fucking sound on the carpet in your socks, you douche."
John just looked at me for a few moments. "What crawled up your ass and died today, Davey? Aren't you supposed to be nice to your boyfriend? I mean technically this could be considered domestic violence."
"That again?" I shoved past him and threw down rags where he had left a trail of beer on his way to the bathroom. "Why can't you just drop it?"
"Because," John said, following me. Of course he didn't walk on the towels. He just made another trail beside the first. "I signed a contract when I became your best friend. It says I am required by law to pester the shit out of you when you're bothered by something so you will be prompted to tell me what's up. This will hopefully include the names of the assholes that made you sad in the first place, so I know who to kill. Their words, not mine."
My eyebrows lifted. That was actually kind of… sweet. I knew at that moment that this was as close to "I love you" as I was ever going to get from John. "Drop it," I insisted. "And I know you're going to take this the wrong way, but you should probably take off that shirt before it starts drying."
"Don't change the subject," he replied. "And speaking of pestering…" He stepped up beside me and held his finger an inch from my nose. "I'm not touching you."
"I'm not touching you."
"I'm not touching you."
"I'm not touching you."
"Jesus!" I threw down all of my washcloths and jabbed him in the chest, trying to channel my frustration into an electric current that would hopefully kill him. "It's like you want me to have the hots for you!"
He paused at that, but only for about five seconds. "Well in all honesty, it would give me a hell of an ego boost to hear the Amazing Supernatural Extraordinaire David Fucking Wong…" Here his voice got a little breathy. I suspected he did it on purpose. "…on his knees, begging me to fuck him, fuck him hard like the little cock whore he is—"
"John, no." I liked to think my voice sounded calm and stern, but it came out more like the squeak of a terrified schoolgirl.
"But only if it's what you want," he said, continuing as if I'd never spoken. All of a sudden he was invading my space again, his slightly sticky chest pressed against mine and his arms snaking around my waist. At that point I was kind of hoping this was some sort of twisted, alternate universe John so I wouldn't feel so bad when I kicked him in the balls. "More specifically, I want what will keep you from bitching to me about how pathetic your life is." He lurched forward, and I turned my head. His lips pressed uselessly against my cheek for a moment before he pulled back to look at me.
"I have a girlfriend," I said.
"Amy can join, too," he replied.
I stared at him. "We are not having a threesome."
"Good." John nodded in approval and pulled me closer. "I'm a possessive bastard, and I don't think Amy would be able to let go if she thought she still had a chance with you. I'd really hate to have to kill her."
"What? John, you crazy son of a bitch, let me the fuck g—mhmph!"
It's really hard to talk with a second tongue in your mouth, by the way. What seemed like hours later, we broke apart only to pant wetly against the other's neck for a while.
"John," I gasped, my voice rough and scratchy.
"God, I love it when you say my name like that."
And then his mouth was on mine again. I didn't fight him this time.
"How's the ass?"
I groaned into my pillow, lying face down.
"Yeah, that's what I thought." Beside me, John happily began rolling a cigarette. I was about to drift off to sleep when he spoke again. "You do realize we just proved that Billy really is psychic, right?"
Despite the lazy protesting of my limbs, I kicked John out into the floor and told him that he could sleep there if he was going to bring that up again. A second later he slid back under the sheets, curled against my side, and muttered something I didn't quite catch but definitely had the word 'bitch' in it.
We will make our choices.
Because anyone who rocks that hardcore at Guitar Hero with your back turned, no matter how retarded, has to be some kind of genius. That and I wanted to be one of the firsts at something.
Is it just me or do most of my titles always end up parodies of song lyrics or really bad puns?
Anyway. I read all three hundred something pages of John Dies at the End in a little over one day, read David Wong's blog-like thingy over that weekend, and wrote this in Biology on Monday. I think the teacher was talking about electrons or something, I dunno. My point is, DO NOT BUY THIS BOOK UNLESS YOU WANT TO BE RENDERED HANDICAPPED BY ITS SHEER AWESOME FOR A GOOD WEEK OR TWO. It's like Jay and Silent Bob get drunk and walk into Tim Burton Land. Plus, they're totally adorably secretly gay for each other. It's also highly addictive, though does not come in powdered form.
God, Dave, stop using so many fucking rags. Get a damn towel that can handle the motherfucking load that is John Cheese.
I really hope Jason Pargin finds this. It's his fault for attracting people with the mental equivalent of a hormonal teenage girl in the first place.
PS: Tell me what parts of my story you thought needed work or didn't flow well so I can focus on my weak areas. I'd really appreciate it.