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oOo5rcG.gif Can you help me, I'm bent. I'm so scared that I'll never get put back together
Dawson tilts his short glass of scotch whiskey and rotates the bottom against the finished wood of his dining room table. Veiled by shadows—the Olympia rising sun barricaded from entering his glass castle—he sits somber and in solitude, sinking into the depth and murkiness of his thoughts, whilst staring into the maelstrom being formed in his brown drink. He’d been up all night, bathing himself in his endless supply of spirits, trying to forget the sorrow brought on by a recent revelation.

The revelation? The most important woman in his life—his mother and guardian angel—had little life left, holding onto her final thread after having been left comatose by cardiac arrest. And as her power of attorney, Dawson was faced with the difficult task of deciding whether or not to pull the plug, after being told there was no hope remaining.

As for the decision? Racing down his prominent cheekbone was a single tear, almost diluted by the alcohol which he over consumed. Therein laid the answer. He knew what must be done, no matter how harrowing it proved. He knew it was his mother’s time to pass on to the afterlife, despite the moment approaching sooner than desired. It was time for him to let go and wish farewell. And he had to remain affirmative.

Already spending the whole evening prior preparing early funeral arrangements, Dawson looks at the array of florals, sprawled for presentation by the florist before she departed for other appointments. It was awe-inspiring how a simple piece of decor could carry so much weight in its symbolism. Those white magnolias; thought to represent dignity and nobility, traits synonymous with the life the matriarch of the royal Clarke clan led throughout her turbulent road travelled. Faced with betrayal and infidelity, she still managed to hold her head high and maintain her respect of self. She was as honest and virtuous as any woman could possibly be; an aspiration and inspiration to many. Panning his eyes over to the lilies hearkens the thought of restored innocence after death, as well as humility and devotion, the latter of which was left tested by the unraveling of the Clarke marriage. It’s there that Dawson ponders whether he always underestimated the importance of flowers; what he knew of, scientifically, was their ability to withstand harsh conditions and changing weather—all on a single, narrow stem—and each new spring season, blossom into something which gives us life. It was, however, more than science. Fixing upon the the deep pink roses, aptly named 'The American Beauty’, he begins to sob. It was his mother’s favorite; classic and simple, just as she liked. He takes one in his hand and clutches onto it tightly, the shivering of his palm loosening the petals and forcing them to cascade. Much like him, the flower wasn’t as strong as it appeared. But in his moment of weakness and vulnerability, company would emerge through the front door to his modern mansion. It was exactly the support which could serve to remedy him, although between the pair of them, there was still a lot left to be spoken in order for Dawson to be able to lean on their shoulder.

Suddenly, there the guest stood before him; his eyes puffy and wide, just as they were when the two of them were children at war with a shattered family portrait and a vicious media. It was Ethan Clarke, his estranged younger brother. Dawson draws back the mucus in his nose, and forces words through a buckling voice as he stands on his leather clad feet. “E… Ethan. It’s... it’s so good to see you.”
MONTY
@Charlie
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oOo5rcG.gif Keep breaking me in, and this is how we will end. With you and me bent
“Brother...”

At best, the familial greeting from the youngest of the Clarke Family to his older kin was jaded. At worst, it was a sinister reminder of the tragedy that had struck from their angel of a mother pass at such an untimely stage. With no glue to hold this broken family together, the relationship between brothers became increasingly tattered through the passing passage of time. While Dawson endured the somber torture of solitude with a short glass of scotch whiskey, it would feel amiss for Ethan to not have at least two glasses, before meeting his brother.

Initially serving as a coping mechanism to witness the assassination of his father's once good name in the public eye, Ethan's drinking habits transitioned into a routine that could only be described as toxic. Drink was what helped to curb his anxiety. Drink was what helped to express himself without regret. Drink was what helped to direct his frustrations accordingly.

His father, the lascivious bastard who broke his mother's heart with some young, easy whore. The media, for exploiting the destruction of a once innocent family and relishing in the scandal and uproar. His older brother, for always being the twinkle in his mother's eye. With so many targets surrounding his visage, alcohol was what helped Ethan to focus on each individual target at a time.

At this particular moment in time, the target of Ethan's pent-up, intoxicated grievances was the sibling who could never afford to be second best; the one that had the whole world in his palm, despite the Clarke name being in utter shambles. While Dawson looked for a career in politics to fulfill his dream of restoring the honor and integrity for his family that slipped through his father's palms, Ethan stood firmly in the reality of being a part of America's most hated family. He could barely bring himself to look Dawson in the eye without a vindictive sneer emerging through his features. “Clearly my invitation to this little party of one must have got lost in the mail, but don't worry. I wouldn't miss this for the world.”
MONTY
@Mariah
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oOo5rcG.gif Can you help me, I'm bent. I'm so scared that I'll never get put back together
Deeper inspection of Ethan's stature forces Dawson's worry to shift from his own turmoil and their mother, to his distant brother's current state. Though it's clear that the eldest of the two wasn't the only one who had attempted to numb the pain of their maternal figure's final days with the sting of alcohol, it was the younger Clarke son who never could hold his hard liquor, always proving to wear his intoxication like a tattered cape—his hard, rapid fall from the clouds was inevitable. For as long as Dawson has been privy to Ethan's distinct personality, he's known him to be extremely brash and emotionally volatile; traits only exasperated by heavy drinking. He was still very immature, so to speak, as though his growth was stunted at the age he was forced into the wildlife.

Springing to his feet instantaneously, Dawson grips onto Ethan's broad shoulder beneath the leather blazer which he wore, then gently massages it. "Seems to me like you didn't need my party invite. Plus I wasn't entirely sure when your flight was landing. I'm glad you made it safe, though." Despite the melancholic circumstances, the elder sibling was elated to be reunited with who he almost considered a child of his own. But the warmth of his inviting smile soon turns ice cold as the reality of their long time reunion sets once more. From elation, sadness would emerge, thereafter transitioning to anger, which forced his sanctimonious nature to rise to the surface as means to channel the strong emotion. "So have you gotten the chance to say your goodbye to mom, yet?" he interrogates with an intimidating stare and a clenched jaw, before taking a swig of his drink. "Because there's no way I'd allow you to do so in this state. If she were awake, she'd be absolutely disgusted with us."
MONTY
@Charlie
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oOo5rcG.gif Keep breaking me in, and this is how we will end. With you and me bent
“With... us?”

Spat out with hints of venom and contempt, the atmosphere between these forlorn brothers soon turned icy, no matter how heated Ethan may have felt from the pints of alcohol that flowed through his veins. Eyes widened, eyebrows narrowed and shoulders pulled back to forcefully push away the hand of his older sibling that had ephemerally rested there, the youngest of the now disgraced Clarke lineage would see no reason to hold back with his brother, upon being on the receiving end of that low blow.

Dawson may have acted out of worry. He may have acted out on impulse. He may not have even intended for the conversation to swing in such a turbulent way. Regardless, any little thing that Ethan could pick up on, he would use to sate that growing feeling of resentment he had for the 'golden child' that stood before him, practically mocking him by presence alone. 

“You wouldn't know a damn thing about anyone seeing you with disgust! Don't you dare stand here, acting like you and me were ever seen as equals! Don't you fucking dare, Dawson. YOU were always the favorite! YOU were always Mom's glorious little firstborn!”

How ironic it was, that the golden child... the favorite... that glorious little firstborn, the one who could do no wrong, was turning to booze for the same way and for the same reason as his bastard baby brother. Even if Ethan wasn't drunk out of his ass, he wouldn't have been able to see clearly anyway. Hate had filled the man's vision; he could only see red. If it was war that Dawson wanted to start, then it was a war that Ethan would gladly sign himself up for, regardless of the consequences.”

“If only Mom could see what you were doing now... Maybe she'd finally see that me and you aren't so different after all. At least Mom knew about my flaws. You apparently didn't have any. You couldn't do ANY fucking wrong in her eyes, could you? And Dad... heh. Look at you. You're like the splitting image of William. All you really need is some coked up whore on your arm, and nobody would be able to tell the difference. ”
MONTY
@Mariah
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oOo5rcG.gif Can you help me, I'm bent. I'm so scared that I'll never get put back together
Even as the memory of the paternal Clarke's past actions cast a tireless haunting effect on the Clarke dynasty—fracturing them into a million little pieces—Dawson's loyalty toward him was firm, only made more inviolable by the knowing of his mother's fate. He was resolute; a knight with an armor so remarkably impenetrable. And with the first sword drawn across from him, he prepared himself to battle back.

It's ironic that as children, suiting up as white knights and playacting saving a princess from being held captive by a vicious dragon was their favorite pastime. For a brief instant, the memory flickers through Dawson's pitch black mind. With cardboard weaponry, the pair of brothers would frolic through the open yard of their castle-like mansion, fancy-free as can be. Be it sunshine, or the falling rain wilting away their sword and shield, they were careless and reckless. The gray clouds and puddles of mud only strengthened their wild imaginations. But they were no longer children. And this was real life.

"You fucking watch your fucking mouth," the eldest Clarke growls back, eyes tinting a bloodshot crimson, while the visible, prominent muscles of his body strain and tighten. "How dare you! How fucking dare you find a way to make this about you and your pathetic... your pathetic." Dawson's substance infused rage grows in potency, impairing his ability to find words to express himself. "You're pathetic! Jesus fucking Christ, you'd think that for this one damn instance, the standing members of the Clarke family could stand in solidarity. Did you know father has spent the entirety of mother's fucking coma by her side? Perhaps for once you could get past your bullshit grievances with both him and I, and recognize that he made a mistake years ago and it's not your place to cast judgement onto him. He's all we have left!"
MONTY
@Charlie
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oOo5rcG.gif Keep breaking me in, and this is how we will end. With you and me bent
“He’s all you have left, golden boy.”

Dawson had to be corrected there. There was no possible way that Ethan would stand for being associated in any way with the repugnant bastard formerly known as his father. Ever since that affair hit the tabloids, and his life had been made a living hell, the youngest of the Clarke family refused to be drawn in the same breath as William.

While Ethan and Dawson never had the perfect brotherly relationship, it was at times like these where those familial ties were strained perhaps beyond repair. Ethan stood firmly by the side of his deceased mother. As far as Ethan was aware, if Dawson didn’t show that same sentiment, then they could no longer be brothers.

“Take your head out of your ass, Dawson! Look at where Mom is now. Want to know why she is where she is? Because William put her there! Where the fuck was that old fart when Mom needed him most?”

The days of the Clarke brothers being innocent little boys, exploring the confines of their backyards, rescuing their fictitious princess and slaying the imaginary fire-breathing dragon was but a distant memory indeed. Now, the only fire came from the intensity of this blood feud. That hatred Dawson and Ethan once directed towards a creature that wasn’t even real, was now being directed towards each other.

“Want to know the real kicker in this all? Normally I could tolerate your bullshit preaching, but don’t act like you’re a damn saint in all this. You’re the one following in daddy dearest’s foot steps. What’s the motivation behind it all, Dawson? Huh? Free drugs? Free hookers? Because it’s sure as hell not to restore honour to our family. You’re just looking out for yourself!”
MONTY
@Mariah
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oOo5rcG.gif Can you help me, I'm bent. I'm so scared that I'll never get put back together
"You worthless, ungrateful piece of shit!" an irate Dawson combusts, immediately then wrapping his hands with the collar of Ethan's coat, giving the older brother the grip to flip his drunken sibling off his feet and onto the dining table. The impact echoes through the desolate halls and spaces of the mansion, his aggression sharply underscored by his lion's roar. If it weren't clear before, far gone were the days of play fighting. But within Dawson still remained the spirit of his child self, wishing for his brother's love, loyalty and obedience, as it were back then; wishing the pair of them could rekindle their precious bond. He already lost one family member, after all.

Just as fast as his hold would tighten, so would his release, Dawson choosing to back away from escalating the now physical altercation. "You know what?! Go ahead," he starts with passion, his eyes blurring behind the coating of withheld tears. "Go right ahead. Have your tantrum and lash out at the one person who's tried to help mom hold this fucking family together for decades now. Yes, despite everything that was done to her, her one wish taken to her fucking grave was for us to remain a strong unit against our enemies and the media, and maintain harmony. Ha, but look at you. Here you are—yet again—refusing to grow up and be a man. And yeah... yeah I've dabbled in hedonistic behavior, myself, and I absolutely enjoyed every second of it. But that's only because I need that constant release since every other second of my life has been spent breaking my fucking back trying to take care of all of you. I've not only had to be a child, I've had to be a damn parent to you when I had no clue how to even manage myself. Now I'm trying to do the one thing I feel is the right thing to do; the one thing I feel is my responsibility, and you stand there and judge me, accusing me of doing it because I'm selfish? I'm selfish. Give me a FUCKING break, Ethan. If it weren't for me all these years, you'd be dead. And as a matter of fact, at this point, I really, really wish it was you instead of her..."

As those final words part from the slickness of his tongue, immediately he's plagued with some regret. But his rage had far surpassed his usual limit, under these tragic circumstances and in lieu of his own inebriation.
MONTY
@Charlie
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oOo5rcG.gif Keep breaking me in, and this is how we will end. With you and me bent
“...”

Words absolutely failed Ethan, at a time like this. He couldn’t even begin to comprehend what the hell Dawson had said to him, until he had to repeat those words in his mind, over and over.

I really wish it was you instead of her. I really wish it was you instead of her. I really wish it was you instead of her. Those nine words constantly spiralled around in Ethan’s volatile brain, each time tempting him even further to say something most would normally regret.

“...Wow.”

Ethan knows he shouldn’t play fire with fire. Ethan knows that two wrongs don’t make a right. Does he give a fuck? Absolutely not. Dawson was the one who started playing with fire. Dawson was the one who made the first wrong. Anything Ethan did, as far as he was concerned, was just out of being provoked.

“There’s the real Dawson. The one that’s about to follow in daddy’s footsteps. The one that only gives a fuck about himself. You wanna say that shit to me? Fine! Just know this. You’re dead to me. You hear me? DEAD!
MONTY
@Mariah
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oOo5rcG.gif Can you help me, I'm bent. I'm so scared that I'll never get put back together
Dawson's fingernails puncture through the palm of his hand as he balls his fist. Then, in an instance of pitch blackness smothering his consciousness, he draws his arm back and forcefully heaves it toward the bottom lip belonging to the youngest Clarke. "FUCK!" he'd afterward scream out in excruciating pain, before placing the palm of his free hand over his tender knuckles.

With the brothers' exchanged words, turned a single blow, Dawson's sadness and sorrow become unrelenting, his frigid, stoic demeanor greatly challenged by his true emotion. Sparing warning, the withheld tears succumb to the heavy weight of their anchors, dragging out his bottom eyelid, across his sharp cheekbone and to the base of his chin. Like icicles, they hang, until drop by drop, they melt into puddles by his feet. "I'm so sorry," he bawls, the phrase—with each meant syllable—fragmented by his shortened breath. His intense aggression had splintered to rubble, as did the remnants of his sober mind. 

"I'm so, so sorry for everything I've done. For not being good enough, to both her and especially to you. I've done... I've done all I've could, but I've failed both of you. And for that I'm deeply, truly sorry, no matter what that means to you. But with her gone, I don't know what will become of me if I lost my brother too. This family has always been what's made me feel human and not just some soulless false idol or God. If there's any way I can help us make amends, just tell me and I promise I'll do everything in my power. Anything. I'm just so fucking sorry, Ethan. Please, just forgive me. Please."
MONTY
@Charlie
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oOo5rcG.gif Keep breaking me in, and this is how we will end. With you and me bent
The only emotion Ethan could feel upon watching his brother’s emotional outburst was complete apathy. Completely aloof, completely cold and completely distant from the man who suffered from an immense emotional outburst. Ethan barely even blinked once. 

At this point, the damage had already been done. Dawson may have ‘started’ this familial war, albeit with heavy regret and an apology of sincerity shortly afterward, but Ethan was damn well going to end it. What did he have to lose that he hadn’t lost already?

“You’re sorry?

Taking steps towards his older brother, Ethan eventually stood close enough to Dawson, to the point where there was just a thin veil of air separating the two. Then, Ethan would press his lips to his sibling’s ear, capitalising on every bit of venom that built up in his system.

“Fuck you, Dawson. You’re not sorry for a damn thing. You’re just sorry I caught you red-handed. You think some flimsy apology can heal the bond we used to have? Fuck. You. I’m dead to you, Dawson, and you know it. Go and carry on dad’s legacy. He’s the only person you have left in this godforsaken family.
MONTY
@Mariah
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oOo5rcG.gif Can you help me, I'm bent. I'm so scared that I'll never get put back together
Dawson stares forward as his spirit is drained from it's sturdy casing, with each brutal word Ethan murmured. A single, final tear dangles from his chin and his eyes slowly shut closed, allowing for the empty blackness he felt to be all he was able to see. There was no sparing the relationship the brothers had; there was no hope in saving it. And maybe he did only have himself to blame. Maybe he was all the things his brother claimed him to be. But the anatomy of their relationship and reasons behind its deconstruction no longer held importance. With their mother gone and ready to be buried, along with it would appear to be the bond the Clarke brothers once shared, entombed for eternity. All he could do now was smile contently, to show he was at peace with the knowledge, even though that was a falsity. Still, smile he did as his green irises meet the light once again, with his eyes still caught by a strong mist.

He had no interest in replying directly to Ethan's vitriolic statement, having made the decision to suppress further anger. So, as result, he drew up words to shift subjects to one more urgent. "I need to know if you plan to show up to mother's funeral sober and if you would like to be part of it. There hasn't been a final decision made on pallbearers as of yet, as well as a plethora of things pertaining to her passing, namely her will. We don't have to be the best of friends, but I do still expect you to work with me and to respect me, not only as her eldest son, but also as the person who mother gave the power of attorney to." His monotone drawl expresses a sudden apathy of his own. No longer were they family, with personal issues to resolve, but rather they were two separate legal parties. And while growing up, their mother always refused to openly choose a side for the brothers' arguments, in this regard it was Dawson she seemed to be standing by. He was, afterall, who she trusted most to take care of the family. With one duty—that being mending his relationship with Ethan—failed, he refused to allow for the rest to follow suit.
MONTY
@Charlie
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oOo5rcG.gif Keep breaking me in, and this is how we will end. With you and me bent
“Go fuck yourself!”

Partially because of the alcohol and partially because of the venomous atmosphere that continually built with every word that passed by, Ethan spat out his words with the most heavy form of malice towards his older brother,

Deep down inside, beyond the intoxication and beyond the immense fury he held towards his brother, Ethan knew that it would have been what his mother wanted to see her two baby boys stand side by side at her funeral. Ethan knew that the last thing she would have wanted was for one of her sons to show up drunk and put this last service for her in shambles.

“Only you could play that bullshit moral card with me after showing me how much of a piece of shit you are!”

It was just nigh impossible, especially in this troubled state of mind, for Ethan to make amends with Dawson so easily. They said that time healed all wounds, but time would need to work particularly hard and particularly diligently to mend the wounds inflicted between the Clarke siblings.

“Stop pretending, Dawson! Stop pretending you give a shit about me or mom. We’re both dead to you! Dead! Dead! Dead!
MONTY
@Mariah
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oOo5rcG.gif Can you help me, I'm bent. I'm so scared that I'll never get put back together
Dawson remains stoic despite his pertinent news falling on deaf ears. Meanwhile, through the irate Ethan's howling, the strong scent of liquor from his brother's mouth continues to travel up the slope of his nostrils, then to his lungs; the aroma being so potent it threatened to make the elder of the two just as noticeably inebriated. "Here we fucking go," a defeated, annoyed Dawson murmurs before running his hand through his unstyled hair to quell his migraine.

Raising his voice and narrowing his eyes, Dawson retorts, using his hand to emphasize his ire once his mane is swept back into place. "We've already made that clear, Ethan, so I'm not about to retread the same fucking thing over and over and over. I've made the decision that there's no use in insulting what little intelligence you have left, by pretending that that isn't what I said in my angry fit. Especially when my plea for your sympathy has already fallen on deaf ears. But so be it. I take full accountability and am now trying to just get this fucking funeral over with, so you never have to hear from me again. And with that said, as I am under the impression that I am speaking to an adult, I'm telling you what duties need to be done and how we need to behave, regardless of our feelings toward each other. This has nothing to do with you and I, as the both of us have already expressed there is no 'you and I'. Now, if you're not willing to comply, you can show yourself the fucking door and not bother to appear at the funeral either, or I'll have you arrested on sight for public disturbance. Furthermore, I have nothing left to say to you, so if you feel the same, then farewell. For good! Actually, you know what..." A thought follows what Dawson believed to be his closing statement, which leads him to reach for his cell phone and make a call. "I'll have security or the police escort you off the premises right now, since you clearly aren't in your right mind; likewise, I barely am myself."
MONTY
@Charlie
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oOo5rcG.gif Keep breaking me in, and this is how we will end. With you and me bent
“There he is! There’s the brother I’ve come to know!”

Breath reeking of alcohol, Ethan’s eyes soon grew darker than the abyss with all the hostile feelings that swirled around in his hazy mind. Eyebrows narrowed towards his older brother, the confirmation of there being no immediate reunion of the two Clarke brothers became all the more concrete, despite what their mother would have wanted.

Deep down inside, beyond the intoxication and beyond the immense fury he held towards his brother, Ethan knew that it would have been what his mother wanted to see her two baby boys stand side by side at her funeral. Ethan knew that the last thing she would have wanted was for one of her sons to show up drunk and put this last service for her in shambles.

“Fuck you... Fuck your security... and fuck the police! You’re all full of the same shit!”

Slowly staggering his way back to the entrance of his brother’s modern mansion, not taking his murderous stare away from his older sibling’s visage. By the time he got to the door, Ethan would ensure he departed this scene with words as malice as his brain could muster.

“Oh, and for the record, if Mom saw how shitty you’re being, she’d be spinning in her grave. God knows I would.”
MONTY
@Mariah
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oOo5rcG.gif Can you help me, I'm bent. I'm so scared that I'll never get put back together
Dawson shadowed closely behind his brother as the journey to the exit was made, in order to ensure the departure didn't yield any damage beyond what was already done to Dawson's soul. But with each heavy step toward the door, Ethan became less and less recognizable, his shape metamorphosing into merely a blur, caused by the elder Clarke's eyes coating with what would hopefully be its last sheet of mist. But those final words proved a fatal blow, puncturing right through his beating heart just before it completely was enveloped by ice.

'She'd be spinning in her grave', Ethan callously remarked, the recorded statement in rotation against the stylus, and replaying through Dawson's fragile mind. Was that truly what he was proving to be: a monster? If his mother could actually see him and all his deeds, would she misunderstand him and hate him as much as Ethan presently did? Was all his effort to lead the family, redeem its name and cement its standing members together, in vain? The riddles posed were quite easy to decipher. And the reality buried Dawson spirit deep in the soil, where his mother would soon be laid to rest.

As Ethan passes through the door, Dawson slams it behind him, beckoning for his tears to crash through the dam barricading them, while his face folds tight amidst his heavy sobbing.

There he sat, collapsing under the weakness of his lower limbs, onto the cold floor. Flooded with pain, he was left in his large glass castle all alone.

FIN.
MONTY
@Charlie
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      As the victim is placed to sit against the dark tunnel wall, whilst rapidly running water pulls an uncomfortable blanket over his outstretched legs, Dawson removes his glasses, crouches low and whispers into the man’s ear. “Now, I’m gonna stay right here and you’re gonna make a phone call to your friend Bobby Carter. You know… the one you’ve been playing mole for, in order to help him hide from me. Once he answers, you’re going to do specifically as I instruct, repeating what I say word for word. Do you fucking understand me?” The lack of response brings forth a titter through Dawson’s tightened pink lips. “Oh right, you’re—” he reminds himself before he removes the gag from the former associate.

      “I understand. Just please, please don’t kill me, man, I’m fucking begging you. I have a fiancée now and she’s pregnant with our second kid and I just wanna be there for them, please. I promise I won’t ever snake you out like that again and I’ll do whatever you want,” pleads Dawson's treacherous hostage, the salt from his tear soaked face diluting by the other elements at play.

      “I’ve already told you not to worry,” Dawson counters with a stern scowl. “I’m not going to kill you. For a crime like yours, that’s not the punishment I see fit. Besides; with your help, I’d be inclined to be more lenient. So here—tell me the number and I’m going to give the phone to you. Remember to repeat after me and do not, under any circumstance, tell Bobby this has anything remotely to do with me, nor indicate any sort of imminent danger for the both of you. Because then I will kill you.” With his two lips wired shut, Dawson flashes a quick smile, then snaps to signal for one of his enforcers to hand over the traitor’s cell phone. The beeping sound of the dialed numbers echo through the tunnel, and then Dawson slowly puts the phone to the ear of his Judas as the call rings through to a connection... MONTY
      @Maxim
    • The Perfect Drug [M]
      By Mariah.
      .intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 9px; width: 200px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } You make me hard when I'm all soft inside On February 13th, 1967, Dawson Clarke’s green eyes—brimming with hope and joy—first absorbed the light of day. Now, 33 years later, it was the lack of light which animated his purest form of spirit; the dark of night, ornamented by moonlight, and the shadows falling from above like linen curtains, all giving second life to the Olympia prince. As he passed through adolescence and entered adulthood, the duality of his lightness and darkness became addictive, as did how they worked in harmony. It was the shadows caused by the light which helped him thrillingly hide in plain sight during the day hours, and during the night hours, the street lamps and neon signs illuminated his sharp, seductive features and gave sight to all his sinful ways. Now, on his 33rd birthday, he found himself caught in the late hours between night and day, as the indoor pool party took form just below his mansion bedroom, where he was hidden as he prepared to greet his guests. Just like his dual presence during the day and night, two celebrations were regularly held for Dawson Clarke, especially given how momentous of an occasion he and the fellow Olympians considered his anniversary. Every year, the eve of Valentine’s day, the entire city would hunger for a taste of what took place during Dawson’s massive, private parties. But for this party, only his innermost circle and those they ultimately trusted were allowed secured presence.

      Carefully admiring his own reflection to inspect the final touches being made to his grooming, Dawson’s brief recollection of his recent recurring nightmares and hallucinations, as well as his quiet mourning of his mother, is interrupted once his cell phone begins to sound. He glances across his night table to see the ID of his lover, Nathaniel, who he’d lately been ignoring, feeling newly scorned. A poisoned apple was the shade his eyes nearly redden into, as he glares at the contrasting green screen, the emotions throughout his mind warping into a dizzying tornado. He grabs hold of the device before scoffing, and forcefully throws it into his master bedroom fireplace, inciting a burst of sparks upon impact. “No,” he verbally refused. There was no way in hell Nate would become the focus of his 33rd birthday, especially not after the latest and worst form of treachery. Cracking his neck and wrapping his tight, chiseled waist with a luxurious white towel, he steps outside to meet his entourage, eager for tonight’s distraction and celebration. Slowly then, the pack make their way deep down into the sea of fellow gay men, and few women, who made up his veil—his homoerotic secret society. The crowd which regularly concealed his darkest mysteries; who allowed him to fully drown in his wild, wicked, unholy acts and tap into his most live self. They were soulless bodies, mostly, swimming around his pitch black waters like eels, having been plagued by pain so much they’d become numb. All they cared for now was the rush—the high—the underworld brought. Their souls belonged to the prince; to Dawson.

      As Dawson confidently struts through the crowd, he looks into the pool of his private, custom bath house, which nearly overflows with younger, chiseled, naked men. And posed on platforms framing the edge were hired harpists, as well go-go dancers and adult entertainers, dressed in nothing but tiny silver metallic g-string underwear, with a matching coat of silver body shimmer, setting their skin aglow. But one hypnotic dancer in particular suddenly enraptured the bachelor. He was immensely tall, his body lean and taut as could possibly be rewarded. His ass sat perfectly above his stallion legs, as his undergarments split through the middle of the mouthwatering sculpture. His jawline appeared as though it could cut through any flesh, most of which Dawson wanted to be his own…

      Reaching over for this evening’s selection of disorienting candy, the birthday boy slowly places the pill to dissolve on his tongue, whilst he continues to admire the art piece meters away, hoping the stranger would notice amidst the dreamscape. MONTY
      @parzival
    • Beautiful Stranger
      By Mariah.
      .intoforest { position: relative; margin: 20px auto 0px; background: #191919; height: auto; padding: 40px; width: 400px; min-height: 300px; } .intoforest img { position: absolute; height: 250px; width: 480px; object-fit: cover; left: 0px; top: 0px; filter: grayscale(0%) contrast(75%); } .ifoutline { position: relative; min-height: 220px; width: 320px; border: 1px solid #d3e0e5; } .intoforest text { display: block; position: relative; color: #e7e7e7; padding: 30px; margin-top: 210px; text-align: justify; font-size: 12px; line-height: 180%; font-family: roboto; padding-bottom: 20px; } .intoforest lyrics { position: absolute; color: #d3e0e5; font-family: overpass; text-transform: uppercase; font-weight: 800; font-size: 9px; letter-spacing: 10px; width: 180px; line-height: 200%; padding: 20px; } HAVEN'T WE MET? SOME KIND OF BEAUTIFUL STRANGER The vibrant, colorful lights flash in repetition through the dark basement venue, synchronized with a heavy electronica beat, as a dizzy Dawson steps from the backdoor bottom staircase into the jungle. The scent of spilled liquor and a wide array of elixirs crawl its way into his widened nostrils, mixing with his overloaded senses. Removing his long black trench coat at check in to reveal a collared black mesh button-down clinging to his incredible, chiseled torso, and tight, black leather trousers, providing the perfect seat to his high ass, he passes through a slew of scantily clad, body glitter laden male patrons on his way to his private booth, tucked away in a back corner. While a celebrity in the waking world, in the depths Olympia's nights, he was merely a shadow—a mystery to all. And he liked it that way. His double life was one of America's best kept secrets, the bachelor exceptionally wary of who he'd allow in his inner circle, striving to maintain his newfound image of a clean cut, All-American prince and political prospect. So it was here he'd regularly creep to, where those who knew of his sins had their own skeletons to bury, while those who didn't either didn't care or wouldn't dare to.

      The taste of the pill he popped upon entry lingers on his wet tongue while its particles slowly make its way through his bloodstream, to his cavernous cerebrum. His desire to venture toward his vices for the night was the last sober thought swimming through his mind as his wild surroundings wrap around him comfortably. Dancing amidst the sea of gay men while he continues to work his way toward his section, his eye catches someone unfamiliar to him, leaned against a pillar, trying to enjoy the music and his drink. Dawson's unable to turn his diluting pupils away, charmed by the man's boyishly handsome looks, wide eyes, and tight, little body. The prodigal son just had to know him; to have him. But he wasn't one to chase, for he preferred the control to be with him—for he, himself, to dominate.

      Seating himself in his private booth, he continues to observe the stranger, steeping in his fantasies, until a moment to capture his attention arrives. "Hey," Dawson calls out as he reaches forward to strongly grab the gentleman by his arm once he passes by. "I don't think I've ever seen you around here before. May I get a name?" MONTY
      @Jake