Chapter Text
Sonar grumbled and sighed, dropping his head and pinching the bridge of his nose, “Ma’am, your coupon is expired. Please stop trying to use it.” He held up the elderly woman’s one day too old coupon, which would’ve gotten her a free snow-globe with a purchase over 30 dollars.
Sonar had been working in the newly dubbed Mystery Shack’s gift shop for the past 3 weeks. The shack’s sales had been on the decline for about a month, and Stan had confidently declared, “The way to sell people a turd is to polish it,” and had renamed the place to give it more ‘novelty’. However, Sonar still wasn’t a fan of Stan’s business practices. Sonar felt some semblance of gratitude that his days weren’t spent wandering around the town anymore, but missed standing around the shops and seeing his friends. Stan had set more rules on Lynn, Connor, and Henry. Sonar wasn’t allowed to hang out with them anywhere but public spaces and home whenever Stan was around. Stan had also started putting locks on the alcohol cabinet, kept beer out of the fridge, and was more careful where he left lighters. Luckily, Sonar had been spared one of many lectures after his room had been found to be clean. But after that day it was like a magical floodgate was open. When he got a little too angry or sad, his telekinesis started flaring up like it was some kind of acne.
“No, I’m telling you, boy! Today is the 4th. I want my free snow-globe!” the woman replied with a fierce conviction.
“You’re not getting a snow-globe,” Sonar mumbled, “It is the 5th of August.”
The woman furrowed her brows and scrunched her nose. “You little liar– I want an adult, not some teenage rabble rouser!”
Sonar sighed in exasperation, hanging his head in defeat as he slowly lifted it, “Dad?”
Mr. Mystery appeared suddenly out of the nearby door leading into the museum, raising a brow with soon-to-be-nailed-up-signs under his arm, “What? What is it now?”
Sonar turned to Stan with a defeated look, leaning on his elbow as the woman took center stage. “Your kid is being very rude! He keeps telling me it’s the 5th when I know it’s the 4th, so my coupon will expire, and he can… can steal the snow-globe or something! I bet he’s selling it to a pawnshop! You should watch this boy–”
“It’s the 5th, you old coot,” Stan replied, “Yeesh– does anyone in this town know the date? That’s the 4th tweaker this month.”
“E-Excuse me?”
“Lady, your coupon’s expired.”
“That’s what I kept trying to tell her!” Sonar replied, clearly frustrated.
“Well excuse me if I didn’t believe a youth with such… s-such outrageous hair!” the woman replied, taking back the 30$ she’d left on the counter and addressing Stan next, “You shouldn’t let your kids dye their hair like that, you know? Soon enough, they’ll be dabbling in the devil’s lettuce.” She continued to grumble as she walked away and out the door, leaving Sonar to furrow his brows and grab a handful of her left behind cheap, outsourced merchandise.
“You’re too polite with these ass-hats,” Stan mumbled, patting Sonar’s shoulder.
Sonar held up his hands in exaggeration before they fell on the desk in front of him, “I’m genuinely not! I kept telling her it’s the 5th, she just doesn’t want to believe me!”
“No need to get so mad, you little hell-raiser,” Stan mumbled, though no malice hung behind his words. “Shop closes in 20, d’you wanna help me with closing up? I’ll let you cut my mullet.”
Sonar perked up curiously, “Really?”
“Yeah, I’ve been figuring it’s time to chop the ol’ thing anyway, look a bit more professional,” Stan replied with a shrug, “You ever gonna cut off the uh… more flamboyant parts of your hair?”
“I don’t think it works like that,” Sonar replied with a shrug, “When I was little, I kept it real short, but after so long it just kinda… does that.”
“What, like your whole head was yellow?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
Stan laughed and scooped up a fistful of Sonar’s hair to look over the blurry line between brown and yellow, “That actually sounds pretty hilarious.”
“Is this about my mullet, or yours?” Sonar asked with furrowed brows, “You sure you want me to do it?”
“Well, we both got the same amount of experience cutting hair, so I might as well get someone other than me to do it,” Stan dropped Sonar’s hair, ruffling it and chuckling, “Besides, if it goes wrong I can blame you.”
The last 20 minutes before closing were always the longest, as Sonar helped the last strangling tour group and Stan kept them in line. Finally, the time came for Sonar’s favorite activity… flipping the sign to CLOSED and locking the door. No more people, no more strangers, and no more work. Stan patted Sonar on the back as the boy was sweeping mindlessly, “Let’s go have some fun, kid. Time to say goodbye mullet, and hello to a normal haircut..”
“Kinda like goodbye Murder Hut and hello Mystery Shack,” Sonar replied with a small shrug.
“That’s one way to put it,” Stan said, gesturing for the boy to follow him.
Finally, the time had come for Sonar to either make his Uncle look ridiculous, or competent for once in his life. They’d had a quick dinner, as Sonar was excited to cut Stan’s hair, but when he raised the scissors to Stan’s hair, he paused. Looking up and around, he was able to look out the window into the twilight woods beyond, taking a moment to stare.
“What’s with the look, kid? Seen a ghost?” Stan asked, gaining a wry smile, “Or maybe… a boo-galur!” Sonar didn’t look as amused.
“I’ve told you, no one’s gonna believe something as stupid as that could ever exist,” Sonar shot back, finally turning to face Stan as he did so before his gaze landed back onto the window, “I just… I dunno, I feel like I’m being watched.”
“Again?” Stan asked, a little tired of Sonar’s recent paranoia streak. “Squirt, I’ve told you, nothing’s in those woods except crazy old hillbillies. Honestly, that sounds scarier than any dumb anomaly.”
“Anomalies aren’t dumb, and I don’t… I-It’s not an anomaly, I know it.”
Stan got up, gently taking the scissors from his nephew and taking the boy by the shoulders, “Sonar, we’re in the middle of nowhere, for crying out loud. Our nearest neighbor isn’t for a quarter of a mile. There’s no one there.”
“I know– I just… I dunno…” Sonar replied, sighing and looking down, “Maybe it’s from the… y’know?” Neither man liked to talk about what had happened last week, or even mention the incident by its dubbed name, “The Crash”. Neither knew why Sonar’s powers had immobilized him, gone wild, or the effects which had come after. He’d run a fever the day after, which he explained by referring to himself as a “shitty TV that gets too hot when you use it.”
“I’ll cut my hair, you go to bed,” Stan replied quietly.
“What?” Sonar whined, “N-No, I’m fine! I can–”
Stan put the scissors down onto the sink, his voice growing stern, “You’re clearly out of it, and you’ve been out of it for a while. I don’t want you staring off into space and lobbing off a chunk of hair while you’re at it! Now go to bed.”
Sonar gawked at the decision, about to speak but gritting his teeth and exclaiming “Urgh!” and marching off. Stan knew he shouldn’t have… but he did. He couldn’t handle thinking about that night, not anymore than he already had. Seeing Sonar tipsy with the red, bloodshot eyes of a smoker had shaken Stan to his core. They reminded him far too much of his own tipsy nature and teenage smoking habits… and look how he’d turned out.
God, it felt like a lifetime ago, but nearly two years back Stan had been addicted to crack. He was far deeper than any man should’ve gone, and had sold everything but his own soul. His morals had nearly died as well. Nothing was safe from his powder stained hands, not even his own body. Stan could feel his hands begin to shake the more he thought about the ordeal. The way Rico looked at him, spoke to him, touched–
Stan pulled himself from his thoughts, his arms around himself instinctively, as he stared into the floor with wild and frightened eyes. His breath had begun to falter and grow quicker, but still stayed at a steady march. Stan’s eyes darted down to his scissors, and then his reflection. His hair. That damned mullet. That thing was a reminder of all his problems, the living and growing infestation of his thoughts. And it was going to die tonight.
Upstairs, Sonar paced about his room muttering, “I’m just fine! Ugh… I can cut hair and other things just fine, he has no idea what he’s talking about. I can’t believe he sent me up here…” he paused, sighing and sitting down on his bed with a small whine, hunching over with the timid voice of a small child, “He said he was gonna talk to me more, but the moment I bring up the crash, he can’t even have me in the same room.” Sonar leaned on his elbow as he frowned, thinking, I get I was stupid… but it’s not like he needs to make it feel so awful… Sonar let his nails dig into his arms as his mind replayed every last minute of that terrible night, and every minute after. Every moment was something unheard of, that shook him to his very core. Sonar knew better than anyone he’d fucked up, royally so, but even the days after felt scary.
When he looked down to his arms, the small scars from Bill’s time with him peppering his skin, he suddenly knew why. His face softened, the tenseness he’d unknowingly held in his body beginning to dissipate as well. When Sonar had done something bad as a child, there was only one punishment fit for his crime. After so long, his mind craved it. Something familiar. Anything familiar. He’d do almost anything for his childhood stuffed animal again, even if it reeked of substances and alcohol. He just wanted comfort, but Sonar had to settle for the seemingly second best solution.
“Ow–!” Sonar suddenly exclaimed as one of his cassettes hit him. He looked around him to see some of the lighter items around his room swept up in supernatural weightlessness, each sporting a sickening yellow glow. Sonar cringed in both pain and slight fear as pencils, a cup, and a handful of other knickknacks pelted him. The sting of skin breaking and bruises forming was deeply uncomfortable… but soothing in a sick sense.
Stan sat in the dining room, fidgeting with the key to their alcohol cabinet in his hand. He hadn’t drank anything for a while, at least by his standards, but knew that sobriety streak would end tonight. He sighed, shrugging a bit. It wasn’t that he was trying to stay clean, he had just been busy all week. But moments after he stood, Stan grumbled, “God damn it…” after noticing he’d forgotten to take out the trash. Usually, the can was in his eye-line by now, awaiting the garbage truck which came around every Friday. But no staring at the window would make the can magically appear there, so Stan begrudgingly changed courses and shuffled out towards their kitchen trash can.
Stan dragged the can out to the curb, letting it clatter against the gravel below he cheaply bought for a parking lot. With a gentle huff, Stan turned back to the house and grumbled, tugging at his tight shirt collar. His eyes scanned the night, the day officially dead as the forest’s shadows seemed to grotesquely morph. Watching him. Stan furrowed his brows, looking around with a growing sense of unease. The kid must be getting to me, Stan thought as he walked back inside.
“Sonar!” Stan called from the kitchen now with short yet still unruly hair, “Breakfast is done, come and get it!” Sonar emerged as he always did, bleary eyed and tired. He stretched, yawned, and sat down at the table already dressed for the day. “Yeesh, long sleeves again? Thought you wanted to drop those when the heat wave comes in this week,” Stan commented, taking his portion of food and dumping the rest onto Sonar’s plate.
Sonar had on a flannel shirt over top of his Mystery Shack uniform, which was really just a random shirt snagged from the gift shop. “The Shack has air conditioning, it’s freezing back there,” he replied, knowing the truth behind his decision, but able to lie better than he could breathe. If Stan found out he’d taken up a new bad habit, Sonar was worried he’d get chewed out worse than if back with Bill, where he would have literally been chewed and spat out.
“No one can even tell that shirt’s Mystery Shack brand,” Stan retorted, causing Sonar to sigh, walk out, and return with an obnoxiously colored shirt labeled M1STRY SH@CK. Stan had tried to appeal to teenagers, a decision Sonar couldn’t help but laugh at when he first saw it.
“Happy?”
“Don’t you hate that thing?”
Sonar shrugged, “You wanted loud, so you’re getting it.”
Stan frowned with a furrowed brow, though not truly upset, “Alright, smart ass. Eat before it gets cold.”
Another long grueling day spent with bumbling tourists for 8 long hours. The worst part, as Sonar often complained to his uncle, was that the locals were somehow stupider each day. They’d forget dates, names, faces, anything and everything just wasn’t important enough for them to remember. But at the end of a long day, Sonar decided he needed to get out. He hadn’t left the house for a while after The Crash, and there was only so much to do around a dilapidated shack besides desiccate second hand taxidermy.
Leaning in the living room door, Stan busy with the TV and relaxing, Sonar asked, “Do you mind if I head over to the CD store? I’ve been stuck in this house forever.”
Stan paused and thought, glancing at the clock and then back to Sonar. “How about I just go with you, kid? When was the last time we did something together, just the two of us?”
Sonar opened his mouth to speak but paused, thinking. “Hmm…” he hummed, a hand up to his chin like Ford used to when he was in deep thought, “I think… when we were out in the snow three years back.”
“Three years?!” Stan scoffed, “Yeesh, that’s sad. C’mon, kid, we need some Pines family fun. Me and your dad would lollygag around our old stomping grounds all the time. We gotta do more stuff like that.”
“What’d you guys do? Also what does ‘lollygag’ mean?” Sonar asked, raising a brow as he sat on the arm of Stan’s chair.
Stan chuckled, sighing with warm nostalgia, “Y’know, mess around. I remember all kinds of crazy stuff we did– Like, one time we were convinced the neighbor’s pooch was a Chupacabra. It was this real lean doberman, a hunting dog. Apparently he was the neighbor’s sister’s or something like that.” Stan shrugged, “He was supposed to be out in the wilderness but was in backwater New Jersey, so needless to say he wasn’t real happy. He’d go nuts around little critters like birds and stuff, and add on the fact we mixed up doberman with blood hound, we thought it was this monster. To make a long story short, we trapped it in a net and got chased down the road when it inevitably broke out–” Stan chuckled to himself at the memory, sighing again– “Had to take the dog for walks as a punishment since by then we were terrified of it, but the mutt ended up being a real sweetheart after a couple tough weeks.”
Sonar laughed along with Stan as he recounted the tale, the spark of childhood innocence rising in him for a moment. He was still his dad’s shadow, even when there was no one to mirror. “Why’d you guys think it was a chupa-cobra?”
“Chupacabra,” Stan corrected, rubbing his neck with a fond laugh, “It’s this cryptid from Mexico or something, and it sucks blood out of some livestock over there. Kids are stupid, kid.”
Sonar nodded, not registering Stan’s slight for a few moments before he turned to his uncle with a furrowed brow. “Hey.”
Stan laughed again, hitting Sonar’s shoulder affectionately, “Too easy.”
“But we are going to the CD store, right?”
“Sure, kid,” Stan replied, shrugging, “Who knows, maybe I’ll get into the stuff.”
Sonar exclaimed a quiet “Yes!” as he quickly left to go get his jacket. Stan chuckled affectionately as he got up with a grunt and walked over to the door.
“Don’t go crazy with your pocket cash,” Stan called as Sonar eagerly headed inside. He took a moment to examine the building before following his nephew. It was squished between two other stores– a print shop and some kind of smoke shop– with a rough exterior. Smudged windows showed records, cds, and cassette tapes with weathered posters in the corners for bygone events. The door was wooden with painted on little men who Stan believed were dancing, but wasn’t fully sure. There were all kinds of lines and shapes as well forming an odd and abstract face, all a different and bright color. Stan was familiar with graffiti but hadn’t been paying attention to any of it and had fallen out of line with the trends.
The inside was covered with records of all kinds. Most were for rent and stocked in beat up milk-crates in order of genre, but the more expensive records were for purchase only and at a steep price. The walls were covered in more general band posters from bygone tours. A small stage was in the back, presumably for local artists, but was unused with boxes and tables shoved into its back. One of the walls had proper bookcases, their sides scratched and dented from being moved, covered in CDs and categorized via manila folder dividers and genre, and in between two of these was a CD player below a window. The table holding it up was small and most likely meant to be a nightstand, and a sign was taped below it: “Play me! Hear CDs before buying”
Sonar eagerly snatched his favorite CD, AC/DC’s Fly on the Wall, and put it into the player. As it played, a man came out from the backroom. He was a decade older than Stan with dark skin, tired eyes, a gentle smile and thick dreadlocks tied into a ponytail, a handful sporting a gold cuff. He wore a simple grey v-neck underneath a colorful, quilted cardigan. “Sonar, is that you?” he asked with a small grin.
“Hey, Doug,” Sonar replied, as Stan curiously (and protectively) stood behind him.
“Where’ve you been?” Doug asked, shrugging slightly and crossing his arms casually, “You and your little band. I haven’t seen you in weeks.”
“Who’s this?” Stan asked his nephew.
“This is Doug, he owns the shop,” Sonar explained, oblivious to why Stan seemed so guarded, “Me and everyone else always come here.”
Doug nodded, “I just keep them out of trouble and sorts. I’m guessing you’re his father?”
“Yeah, I’m Stan,” he greeted, reaching a hand out to shake Doug’s.
“Doug.”
Stan looked around with a hand on his chin, “Quite the place you got here, huh? Y’know, I own a small touristy type joint down the road.”
“The Mystery Shack, right?”
The two talked about business while Sonar curiously perused the store. Their new arrivals section hadn’t changed since he found the place, but he still found new gems every time he visited. Stan could hear Sonar by the music player and would glance at him every so often. The constant music was nice to have in the background, and it was something Stan could get used to. He knew Sonar had been bringing home CDs, but didn’t realize how much the kid loved them. One of the ones Sonar seemed particularly interested in was Atlanta Rhythm Section’s Alien, on their album Quinella. Once Sonar put it back, Stan came up to him and casually asked, “If I wasn’t making stacks of cash off your free labor, I’d say you ‘ought to work here.” Sonar rolled his eyes with a small smile, setting the CD back and turning to put another in. During that moment, Stan snagged the disk off the shelf as quiet as a mouse.
“Shh,” he said to Doug as the man rang him up, handing him a five dollar bill.
“What’s the occasion?” Doug whispered as he snatched the CD, handing Stan back change.
Stan glanced over to Sonar, “Kid’s birthday’s coming up this winter.”
“Oh, what day?” Doug asked.
Stan could vaguely remember the day he first met Sonar, and while they hadn’t formally recognized it as his birthday, Stan had already decided Sonar’s birthday was November 15th. He’d quietly celebrated each one, but knew his nephew would’ve hated having a birthday party with his tourist scamming uncle. But maybe this year will be different. Stan could at least get the boy a gift… and actually pay for it so Sonar wouldn’t get banned if Doug found out.
“Thanks for taking me to the CD store, Dad,” Sonar said as they got in the car.
Stan patted the boy’s shoulder, replying, “Anytime, squirt.”
“Why do you still call me that?” Sonar asked, buckling himself up, “Like I’m not mad or anything, just curious.”
Stan shrugged. “Eh, nicknames stick,” he explained as he pulled out and onto the road, laughing, “Besides, you’re 16 and look 12.”
“Ha ha, very funny,” Sonar said dryly.
“You’re the one who asked!”
As Sonar grabbed a snack from the kitchen, something he did rather often for someone so skinny, he noticed Stan in the living room. “What’re you doin’?” he asked through a mouthful of crackers.
Stan looked up for a moment before returning his gaze to the sprawled out cards on the table, “It’s called Solitaire, kid.”
“I get it’s just us here, you don’t have to be so upset about it.”
Stan shook his head, “No, I’m not saying I’m in like… solitary confinement or nothing. That’s the name of the card game I’m playing, Solitaire.”
“How do you play?” Sonar replied, drawing closer to the game.
“There are four different kinds of card, they’re called suits. You got the diamonds, hearts, spades, and whatever these shits are— like, clovers or something,” Stan explained, gesturing to the pile of clubs, “You start with the ace, which is the special name for a card of one. Then you add the card that has two of whatever suit and so on.”
“Why is this one looking at me?”
“That’s the king, and he had a queen and a jack,” Stan replied, gesturing, “You wanna play?”
“Isn’t it just a one person game?”
“I’ll teach you another one, don’t worry.”
Finally, it was Saturday. The sun was rising with a gentle hue which cascaded over the trees and lake alike, painting them golden with its rays. Sonar always appreciated the summer, as it meant he could spend more time outside. Stan was busy counting up that week’s hull and ‘deducting taxes’. He usually did so in his office, knowing Sonar wasn’t very happy with his activity. He was worried the government would find out that one little thing, and through a series of discoveries, they’d be pulled away from each other. But once a conman, always a conman. Stan just couldn’t help himself. Sonar was busy sleeping. However, when he did wake up, he shuffled downstairs for breakfast. Saturdays were always his day to cook, so he decided on a couple scrambled eggs and toast. “Stan,” Sonar called from the kitchen, “How many eggs do you want?”
“Fried?” Stan called back from his office.
“Scambled.”
“Put me down for three, kid.” Stan could hear the sizzling of eggs and butter from his office, the smell wafting in and bringing a soft smile to his face. It was a nice way to start a Saturday. “Did you take out the trash yet?”
“No, why?”
Stan got up, setting his papers down and grabbing his shredder, “Shredder’s full.” He took out the waste bin and began to walk over to Sonar, setting it down next to him, “Take this with you when you do, will you?” Sonar nodded as Stan wandered back to his office.
It was not 5 minutes later when he suddenly heard “Stan!” from outside, in that rising siren something's-wrong tone. Hurrying out, he paused and looked around to see Sonar staring up at the house with a shocked face, and he turned around himself to see the entire shack covered in eggs.
“What the fuck?!” Stan exclaimed, scoffing, “Who the Hell did this?”
Sonar stammered as he replied, “I-I don’t know. What caused this?”
“I’ll tell you what!” Stan replied, his anger rising, “It wasn’t no ‘what’ it was a ‘who’! Some asshole egged our house!”
“They what?”
“It’s when you throw eggs at someone’s house cause you hate them,” Stan replied, running his hand down his face with a sigh, “I used to do this all the time in my youth, and I bet that’s exactly who did it, some little dickhead teen.”
Sonar paused and curiously tilted his head, jogging up to the house’s door frame and taking off a note. He returned to Stan, reading it out. “Figured you needed more dye, Billy Idol…” Sonar mumbled with a sigh, “I think I get what you mean now.”
“What?”
“There are these dumb kids who make fun of me and all my friends,” Sonar replied with a heavy frown, “They call me Bill Idol cause he has dyed blonde hair, and they threw eggs cause that’s part of my hair color.”
Stan’s anger suddenly turned from What’ll customers think? to, I’m gonna punt that little shit-stain into next Passover as Sonar spoke. “They what? Sonar, why did you tell me?” His tone came off slightly angered despite Stan trying to hold himself back.
“I-I didn’t think it was important,” Sonar replied sheepishly, shrugging, “Besides, they barely do anything. It’s usually just teasing and like messing with our stuff.”
“What do they do?”
Sonar looked away, his brows knit, “They just like grab at our bags sometimes and dump them out. But I didn’t wanna bother you.”
“You dunce, that’s serious!” Stan replied, scoffing slightly, “I’m not letting someone go around messing with my kid! Especially not when they’re egging our damn house!” Sonar awkwardly sighed, crossing his arms slightly as Stan suddenly said, “Squirt, the eggs.”
“I know, I’ll clean it.”
“No, the eggs.”
“I just–”
“The eggs inside!”
“Shit!”
“Go! Go get them!” Sonar ran inside as Stan sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. He shook his head, grumbling as he followed Sonar inside, “What am I gonna do with him…?”
Sonar fidgeted with his seat belt gently cradling the carton of eggs they’d stopped by the store to grab after burning the first. “Do we really have to go up to his house?”
“Yeah,” Stan replied as he drove, “We’re going to that punk’s house right now.”
They were on their way to Chet O’Brien’s house, the leader of the little group tormenting Sonar. He was a player on the school’s hockey team, which was impressive due to the group’s selectiveness. The ice rink was so far away and the equipment was so expensive that only the way on the team was if your parents were rich or if you knew a rich kid. On top of that, to cut costs, they accepted very few students. He had slicked back hair with far too much hair gel, so much so some students called him Silver Spoon behind his back from the way it shined. He wore his hockey Letterman jacket so much it was rumored he actually had three. Sonar hated him, as he was where the ‘Billy Idol’ nickname came from. He didn’t even really get the insult, he liked Billy Idol. Eyes Without a Face was one of his favorite songs. But knowing it was about his hair made him insecure.
His house was nearby Henry’s, which was the only kid in their group Chet didn’t relentlessly mock. He got flack for being quiet, but they all did. It was probably because they were from the same neighborhood, and Chet just couldn’t bring himself to bully one of his own– the upper-class. It was a large but not mansion-sized home, but big enough to where the wooden flourishes and flourishes, and the yard doubled as its own property.
Sonar awkwardly stood behind Stan once they’d parked and came up to the door, wishing he could dive behind the freshly pruned bushes and die. His stomach twisted in tight knots, and his nails grew a little too tight around his arm. His only stinging release. Stan aggressively knocked on the door. Soon enough, Chet– for once with normal hair– answered in his pajamas with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Stan grimaced at the sight, not having quit smoking but judging Chet for lighting one so young and so early in the morning.
“You Chet?” Stan asked.
“Yeah?”
“Where’re your parents, kid?”
“They’re out of town,” Chet replied, furrowing his brows as he noticed Sonar behind Stan, “What do you want, old man?”
“You listen here, and you relay this to corporate–” Stan began, referring to Chet’s parents as he moved closer and poked the boy in the chest, towering over him, “You ever touch my kid or his friends again, and the medical bill will be the least of your worries. Capiche?”
“You don’t scare me,” Chet replied firmly, his face scrunching up, “No cop’s gonna let some bum scam artist beat me up. And even if you tried, I’d sue your ass for everything it’s worth! I’d make your shitty little cabin into a country club. Then it’d actually be worth something.”
“You shut your mouth! You’re what, 15? You gotta respect your elders, you little punk.”
“Emphasis on ‘elders’,” Chet replied with a scoff.
“You little–!” Stan snarled, his body tensing to begin and dive at Chet before Sonar put a firm hand on his arm.
Chet noticed, as did Stan, and smirked. “Maybe if you apologize, I’ll pay for you to get some anger management. Seems like you need it and the cash.”
“Chet, leave it be,” Sonar mumbled.
“The dog speaks!” Chet laughed, taking out his cigarette to hold between two fingers and flick ash onto the pair. “Get off my property, freaks,” he said before slamming the door.
Stan gawked, reaching for the now locked door handle and yelling, “Hey, asshole! Open back up! Don’t hide in your stupid little house!”
Sonar cringed and frowned, mumbling, “I told you this was a bad idea… he doesn’t listen.”
“So what?” Stan grumbled, suddenly pulling Sonar closer by his shoulders, “When he’s bullying you again, you call me right away, alright?” Sonar looked up at his uncle, sheepishly surprised at the contact and nodding along. They began their defeated trot back to the car, as Sonar suddenly paused at his door. While he opened it up, he did not get in.
Crack!
Stan curiously turned to face the noise, as he saw Chet's pristine house, one running egg yolk. Then another, as Sonar threw another egg. Stan chuckled and began to laugh, exclaiming, “Atta boy! Here– give me some!”
Sonar giggled and handed over a couple eggs, watching as his uncle fired one all the way up onto Chet’s roof. Sonar’s smile was brighter than it ever had been since he started working at the Mystery Shack, as the two threw egg after egg. Chet came out, yelling at two of his fierce dogs to chase after the two. Stan jumped when he saw the dobermans, trained to snarl and bark away intruders such as himself. He grabbed Sonar by the shirt and bolted for the woods, the two quick to their feet and into the treeline.
“Why aren’t we getting in the car?!” Sonar shouted as they disappeared into the woods.
Stan panted between words, shouting, “I don’t wanna be driving away… huff huff… and crush those dogs! Or— huff have them scratch the car! We’ll come back for it!”
Sonar didn’t respond, and just kept running. They could both still hear the dogs barking behind them, and only stopped once they were deep in the woods. Stan and Sonar panted, both out of breath as Stan knelt down and eventually laid down on the ground as Sonar sat down on a fallen log. “A-Are they gone?” Sonar asked.
Stan nodded with a snicker and laughed, “Sweet Moses, squirt! I didn’t know you had that in you!”
Sonar sheepishly laughed, nervously touching the back of his neck the way Ford used to, “I had a bit of practice with uh– y’know.”
“Yeah, I do,” Stan replied, chuckling, “How about we go around those dogs and get our car back? Besides, just some woods to go through. Can’t be that big.”
It was, in fact, that big. And the pair quickly found that out after 10 minutes of walking. Stan grumbled, sighing, “Should’ve just ran those dogs over…”
“Stan!”
“What?” he defended, “We’d have been home by now and had time to have breakfast at Greasy’s.”
Sonar sighed, “Can’t do anything about it now, so let’s just keep walking.”
“Alright, alright…” Stan mumbled as Sonar suddenly paused. “Hey, what happened to ‘let’s keep walking’?”
“Stan, look,” Sonar said, pointing off into the distance where Stan saw a little critter duck down into the bushes.
He couldn’t make out much, and actually, it was a little blurry. Maybe I need glasses… Stan idly thought. “What, that little black thing?”
“Yeah–” Sonar replied, curiously approaching as, suddenly, what appeared to be an unnaturally large bird jumped up and ran off into the forest. “Hey! Come back!” It had a long and thin beak, with forward facing eyes and the build of a finch. However, for a bird, it had unnaturally sophisticated talons with five toes instead of the usual three in the front and one in the back. This bird’s foot was more like a hand with sharp nails, and made Stan deeply uncomfortable. A handful of feathers were shiny, causing a strange effect among the blues and purples in its feathers.
Sonar ran after it, following the critter as Stan asked, “Really?!” in an exasperated tone. He was not happy to be running again…
They followed the creature deep into the woods, into and past a deep thicket. Sonar had no issue running after the bird, but as Stan tried to follow, he ended up running head first into the wall of ivy and plants. He fell back onto his rear, getting up to keep following, but after the 8th time he tried to delve into the wall, Stan realized something was deeply wrong. “Kid?! Sonar! C-Come back!”
“C’mon!” Sonar shouted, appearing out of the thicket and pulling Stan through himself. But as they looked upon their discovery, each man gawked.
This forest was hiding a society within it. The bird was hopping away to its owner, as gnomes and dwarves passed by with carts of merchandise. A hag was atop a ride-able hand as a walking skeleton haggled with her. A half-man-half-horse with one eye for a face was reading on a nearby bench. There were buildings made from trees, or stone, or mud. Stan felt like he was taken into the 1800s as he scanned the noticeably limited society around him, and glanced down an alleyway to see what he could only guess was a fairy dealing dust to a satyr. Sonar too was in awe, staring at the land before him with a dropped jaw. Another fairy soon approached him, with her hair in a braid, batting her eyelashes. “So what’s your name, newcomer?”
“He’s 16!” Stan replied instinctively, pulling Sonar closer, unaware he just intervened in a fae-trick instead of simple flirting. “Now where the Hell are we?”
The fairy raised a brow, “Was I talking to you? Move aside.”
“Hey!”
She pushed Stan out of the way with too much ease for something so tiny, addressing Sonar instead, “Get your pet under control. Wouldn’t want the newcomer gettin’ his human taken away.”
“W-What?” Sonar stammered, taken aback.
“You seriously need someone to teach you?” she scoffed, crossing her arms, “I don’t wanna be your babysitter, but I’ll play ball. This is the magic black market, kid. Humans aren’t allowed in here, but you. You reek of magic! Didn’t think you’d ever come out of the human settlement to meet any of us, but a lot of folks have been real curious.”
“I-I’m sorry… humans are… pets here?” Sonar quietly asked, gesturing to Stan, “He’s my dad, he’s not my pet.”
The fairy took a long look at Stan before exclaiming, “Hey! I know you!” She crossed her arms in a huff, her face suddenly angered, “ You’re that scientist punk who took Nancy!”
“U-Uh–” Stan mumbled as he was grabbed by his shirt.
“She couldn’t make any dust for a week ‘cause of you!”
“Ma’am!” Sonar shouted, pulling Stan away, “H-He’s under control now, see? I will keep everything under control.”
The fairy scowled before mumbling, “I wish he were on a leash…” and wandering off.
“Whoa,” Stan mumbled, looking around in awe and slightly anxiety, “This place is like a magical mafia. We should go…”
“But Stan! Maybe this place could help me,” Sonar replied.
Stan’s face darkened as he put a protective hand on Sonar’s shoulder, “With what, kid? Selling your soul? I’ve been in places like these before and they don’t help you…”
“You remember my weird magic freak out in the woods?” Sonar replied, “I-I can’t deal with that on my own! I need someone who knows what’s happening to me.”
Stan sighed, slowly nodding, “Yeah, yeah… Alright, we’ll hang around for a little bit, but don’t talk to anyone we don’t have to, yeah? Don’t accept anything, don’t answer any questions. I won’t let you fall into the same rabbit hole I did.”
Sonar nodded in turn, “Yeah. Promise.”
The market was a mess of scams, illegal activity, and general unruliness. Some people whispered about the half-human and his father-pet, and others were trying to scam them out of everything from their own names to their souls. One creature, a toothy-grinned and shadowy-faced creature in a trench coat, even tried to steal their faces. Stan was able to get them all to back off, and anyone who contested his being-there was met with Sonar replying with a feigned confidence that Stan was his guard. Not only did it make him seem fiercer than it should, but more important than he should. No one around the market had a guard.
The only plausible lead seemed to be a spell dealer. He had a little shop underneath another, down a short flight of stairs made of cobblestone and bricks. His shop was small but held scrolls piled up to the ceiling, with a whole wall dedicated to wands in tiny units. The woodworking was clearly weathered and cracking, and the rugs below were hidden behind a layer of thick dirt. They kept you from noticing the harsh stone flooring but instead focusing on the age of the shop, and its foot traffic.
“Ah, hello!” a man greeted. He was older, and a cyclops. He had a curly and frazzled grey beard with a little newspaper cap on top of a most likely balding head. He wore a heavy sweater given the little shop was quite drafty, as the wind was easily able to blow down the stairs and into the door. “My, you must be the little one there’s been so much buzz about. And who is this?”
Stan seemed wary, and answered for Sonar, “Guard.”
“Worried about the pickpockets, are we?” continued the man, smiling warmly at Sonar. “Don’t worry about me, I just sell here because it’s cheap rent. No other place in town has quite so low rent, nor lets me sell such powerful weapons.”
Sonar nodded, looking about the store in awe at its bowing tables and dusty paper. “You deal in magic, yeah?”
“Oh yes,” the man chuckled, “I deal in all kinds of the stuff. I have wands, spell books, pre-filled spell books, single use scrolls—”
“I’m actually here for advice.”
“Advice, eh? Best to get to know each other beforehand,” he decided, extending a four-fingered hand, “I’m Earnie.”
“Uh…” Sonar mumbled, nervously reaching out, “Sonar.”
They were about to shake as Stan set his hand over Sonar’s protectively. Earnie laughed, waving carelessly, “No need for all that, but I’m sure you’ll learn in due time that I am nothing to fear. Now, tell me–” he sat down on a stool, crossing his leg– “what can I help you with, young one?”
“I uh… was a stupid kid,” Sonar replied, “and got in a car accident and was so high I ended up running off into the woods. But when Stan found me, I was uhm…”
“Kid was a tornado of magic, hurling around dirt and that,” Stan added.
Earnie nodded, “I see… were you in distress?”
“I’m not really sure… It’s fuzzy,” Sonar mumbled with a shrug. “Do you know anything about dream-demon magic?”
Earnie’s brows rose in curiosity, “Ah… I fear that I do.” Sonar hopefully smiled before Earnie added, “My family was quite terrorized by one” and his smile quickly fell.
“We’re in the same boat then,” Stan replied.
Earnie nodded, “Long ago, my ancestors encountered one such beast. He was a three-sided-abomination! Back then, my family lineage was human, but after my great-great-great-great-great grandfather, a grand king, trapped the demon out of hubris, we became cyclopses.”
“Hubris?” Stan asked.
“Yes,” Earnie continued, “He thought that if he could capture a true demon, and make him his pet, he could prove himself the greatest in all the lands. But the wizard he had enlisted to help him with this, while powerful, was not powerful enough. The cage in which this beast was trapped in was metal, and he grew so red hot with rage, it melted. Needless to say, that wizard was served with a terrible fate, as was the king.”
Stan hissed through his teeth, “Yeesh, sorry ‘bout that.”
“No matter,” Earnie replied, shrugging, “If my family had never been cursed, I wouldn’t have been a freak of nature. And if not for that, I would’ve never had this shop.”
“B-But what was the point of your story?” Sonar asked.
“Ah, yes! The point, the point…” Earnie muttered, “Those creature’s magic, much like most magic, is fueled by their emotions. Most outbursts happen because a being is emotionally unstable.”
Sonar blushed sheepishly, embarrassed to be called out so blatantly as Stan patted him on the shoulder. “But how do you stop it? I can’t have my powers just blow up every time I get a little upset!”
“It will come in time,” Ernie shrugged, “You look like a young man, you’re most likely going through puberty. Your magic is unbalanced, as are your emotions. But the best thing to do is to talk with your father about how you feel.” Sonar looked up at Stan with a face of reluctance, followed by Stan’s own cringe. “I see the problem now.”
“Y-You do?” Sonar asked, hoping he had some kind of scroll to magically fix everything.
Earnie nodded and replied, “You need to have weekly talks.”
“Excuse me?” Stan asked.
“Neither of you are talking about any feelings at all,” Earnie shrugged, “It only makes sense he’s becoming emotionally unstable. Look at him, he looks terrible.”
“What?” Sonar sheepishly asked, looking down at himself.
Earnie simply leaned on his counter-top and continued. “And if that doesn’t work, you can have a scroll of petrification to turn your rival to stone. You do have a rival, right?”
“Like that Chad kid? Chet?” Stan asked.
“Chet,” Sonar corrected.
“Yeah, Chet!”
Sonar crossed his arms, “I’m not turning Chet to stone, and he’s not my ‘rival’. He’s just some kid who belittles me.”
“Maybe that’s your trouble, you haven’t murdered him yet!”
Sonar froze in shock at Earnie’s diagnosis and stammered, “I-I’m not murdering anyone!”
Earnie pulled a sword from his counter, which was covered in runes Sonar had never seen, “Now murder I can help you with! I have all kinds of scrolls for that. This sword can eat the remains of your enemies so you won’t get caught! Just make sure to ask your old man first.”
“Sure, why not,” Stan replied, his tone genuine yet his intention sarcastic.
“Dad!” Sonar exclaimed, the word coming out somehow naturally.
Earnie nodded in earnest, “That’s the spirit! You’ve killed many’a rival in your age, I can tell.”
“Oh yeah,” Stan continued, his coy smile growing brighter by the moment, “Y’know, rivals for the throne, competing street gangs, people who cut me off in traffic. It’s about time Sonar grew up and got to the stabbing!”
“Okay, we’re done here—” Sonar grabbed his uncle’s arm— “We need to get lunch anyway.”
Stan laughed, following his nephew out, “Don’t be like that, I was just teasing you!”
A man with sharp features, sporting a large and pointed nose on his face and crooked teeth, stood at a table of the little restaurant Stan and Sonar found themselves in. Or, at least, they thought it was a restaurant. His skin was pale, almost sickly, and he wore what appeared to be a red cap. Yet, its two inquisitive eyes, large maw, and two hanging tentacles told a different story. As well as the fact it was speaking for and controlling the man in question. “What can I do for you?” he asked Sonar, ignoring Stan who was across from Sonar in their booth.
Sonar paused, looking over the menu sheepishly, “U-Uh… I’ll have the… poached false stone?”
“And I’ll take the unicorn burger,” Stan said, pouring a packet of sugar into his iced tea, “Hello?”
“I’m so sorry, sir,” the living cap said, chuckling, “It seems we gave your human the wrong menu—”
“N-No, he’ll eat what he likes,” Sonar replied, putting his menu down, “please.”
The cap laughed heartier, “Very funny, sir.”
“I’m serious. He will have the burger he wants, or we will… t-take our business uh— elsewhere,” Sonar said semi-confidently, crossing his arms.
The cap seemed confused but slowly took their menus, nodding, “I see… I will have that right out for you, sir.”
Once the waiter had left, Stan turned to his nephew with a curious look. “Whoa, where’s this guy been?”
Sonar blushed in embarrassment, leaning back into the booth’s cushions, “I was just copying what the pushy customers do back home.”
“Well you should stand up for yourself more, it looks good on you,” Stan replied, smiling with pride, “But don’t be as pushy as some of those old ladies. Those freaks are gonna be the death of me…”
“If my crazy genetics don’t do us both in first,” Sonar replied quietly, sighing, “I-I’m sorry.”
Stan paused and raised a brow, “For what, kiddo? For egging that guy’s house?”
“No, for today,” Sonar replied, setting his hand on the back of his neck, “We were supposed to just have a chill, normal day. But then all this happened and I… I dunno.”
Stan chuckled and leaned forward, his smile almost defiant. “Are you kidding me, squirt?” he asked, reaching over to playfully hit Sonar’s arm, “We’re eating in a magical divebar, hanging out, egging houses— Today hasn’t been a failure.”
Sonar paused as his brows knit in confusion, “B-But you’re always complaining about how tired you are and—”
“I’m a complainer, you should know that by now.”
“I uh… guess that’s true,” Sonar chuckled, sheepishly smiling again.
“Even if we had to clobber every rejected Disney character here, I’d still be having a ball,” Stan replied, leaning back confidently, “You know why?”
“Why?”
“Cause I’d be doing it with you.”
Sonar smiled warmer as he leaned forward onto the table, crossing his arms, “Thanks, D—”
“Here you are—” the waiter interrupted, setting plates in front of them both— “a unicorn burger and false stone. How’re we doing on drinks?”
Despite the waiter addressing Sonar, Sonar looked to his uncle to answer. Stan paused for a moment and decided, “Uh— y’know what, top this off for me, would’ya?”
Stan was already halfway through his burger when he noticed Sonar had barely eaten. He curiously leaned over. “How’s it taste, bud?”
Sonar was making a sour face at the meal, poking it slightly. It looked like a rock alright, but if that rock had skin and a massive cut where a face had previously been. The inside was juicy like a good steak, and it was poached to melty perfection. “Good, I guess. Just a little odd, y’know? It reminds me of some of the stuff I ate as a kid.”
“What, with the triangle dude?”
“No.”
“What do you mean, ‘no’?” Stan asked, leaning casually on the table.
Sonar paused and continued to poke at his food, explaining, “Well uh… When I was about ten or so, I ran away. And I hung around the Nightmare Realm until I met you at thir—”
“Y-You what?!” Stan exclaimed as some restaurant patrons glanced his way.
Sonar cringed and cut off a piece of meat with his fork. “I know, I know. It was stupid and I shouldn’t have done that.”
“Well yeah, I’m glad you did cause you’re here now— but why didn’t you tell me, Sonar?” Stan asked, his voice somewhere between shocked and upset, “The Hell, kid?”
Sonar shrugged with a defensive tone, squeaking out, “Well you didn’t ask!”
“I shouldn’t have to ask, that should just come up i-in conversation!”
“Why would I mention that?”
“Sonar—”
“Ever? Huh?” Sonar shrugged again, holding up his hands in mock surrender, “Oh, yeah, good morning Stan. By the way, I was homeless for three years three years ago—”
Stan put his head in his hands, sighing gruffly. He sat up, “Look, just… It was shocking, alright? Not faulting you, kid. Just shocked.”
“Maybe that weird… rival guy was right,” Sonar mumbled, “I feel like this would’ve come up in like a feelings talk or something.”
Stan shrugged, replying, “We’ll have all the feelings talks you want, squirt. I just want you to be good… That make sense?”
Sonar smiled slightly and nodded, stabbing a piece of false stone with his fork. “Yeah, it does.”
“Now eat your rock before it gets stone cold.”
Sonar snickered as he ate, the mood lifted by Stan’s corny pun. He was somehow at ease in the weird market. Not that it was comforting in any way, and not that Sonar didn’t want to leave it, but he was glad his uncle was by his side more than anything.
Stan stood close by Sonar as they left the woods and thus the market. He made sure to scare off pushy salesmen, or more accurately to make them cringe at his presence as a full human and buzz off. “Hey,” Sonar said after a few moments, “how did that burger taste by the way. I never asked.”
Stan raised a brow before chuckling and replying, “It was like if you mixed sugar with candied oranges and beef. It kinda sucked but was kinda good at the same time.”
Sonar chuckled, “If it sucked, why did you keep eating it?”
“Why did you keep eating that cereal bowl?”
“It was one time!”
“That milk was obviously spoiled—”
“I was little! I had never had milk before! Besides, I didn’t wanna waste it.”
“Well there’s your answer.”
“You don’t get to call me out for being frugal when half of our everything is stolen—!” Sonar was suddenly grabbed and put in a playful headlock by Stan, who roughly ruffled his hair, “Hey!”
Stan, laughing all the while, replied, “You’ve done it now, kid!”
“Let go!” Sonar cackled.
“Nope! You’re stuck!” Stan said as he was nearly pushed back by Sonar’s foot, the two’s playful tussle suddenly interrupted as Stan saw his car being towed. “What?! Hey! Be gentle, she’s rare!” Stan shouted, dropping Sonar who couldn’t help but laugh, his face slowly turning red from it.
Stan shut the door harshly on the towers, huffing at the fact he was out 20 dollars, but happy to see that some of the egg was still there from this morning. Sonar was busy buckling himself in when Stan finally did so too, “Squirt, we’re stopping by a craft store on the way home, got it?”
“Alright,” Sonar replied, leaning on the car window. Stan was glad his nephew was much more focused on the passing by road than the store or what he was buying.
The sun was setting as Sonar brushed his teeth and sleepily rubbed an eye, leaning over the sink to spit out his toothpaste. Washing off his toothbrush and absently wiping his hands on his pj shirt— one of Ford’s old Backups More University shirts— he began to hobble off to bed. Curiously, the downstairs light was still on. Shoot, Stan’s gonna kill me if I leave this one all night, he thought, reaching over to the light switch at the top of the stairs and flicking it off.
“Hey!” Stan’s gruff voice called out.
“Sorry!” Sonar yelled back, flipping the light back on as he wandered down the stairs in his socks, “Didn’t realize you were still down here. Got worried, y’know, electric bills and everything.”
“You’re fine kid,” Stan said from the kitchen, “just tidying up down here. Cleaning out the fridge. Now go to bed, it’s late.”
“Alright. Goodnight, Dad.”
Stan couldn’t help but chuckle with a fond smile, sighing a little as he looked down at the CD he’d picked up weeks ago. It was the night of the 14th in November, and everything was ready for tomorrow. The kitchen table was cleared off for Stan to roll out his wrapping paper of choice, a purple paper with a yellow lighting bolt in a steady pattern. And while he sucked at wrapping gifts and hadn’t in nearly 20 years, now, he had a reason to learn.