Chapter 1: With One Wrong Word He Burns
Summary:
Chapter title from "Canol Road" by Stan Rogers
Notes:
Chapters with "[!]" have explicit content and/or content warnings.
Chapter Text
Brutalist Fuming After The Rassler’s “Brain-Searing Debacle”
Reported on 4 January 2020
Las Vegas, VC — The “Houston Hotshot” Rassler may be changing his name soon. Fans and fellow wrestlers can’t stop talking about his hilarious slip-up at the Stomp Shop event. So far, reactions have been widely humorous. In a post-match interview with Kanaya “Make ‘Em Talk” Maryam, The Rassler even embraced his status as Worldwide Action Promotion’s first meme of the year, saying, “Well, I guess I ought to call myself ‘The Slipster’ now, huh?”
But not everyone is amused. Brutalist, The Rassler’s opponent at the time of the incident, is fuming. (But there’s nothing new about that!) In his post-match interview, the heavyweight newcomer criticized his opponent’s literal slip-up, calling him a “f—ing embarrassment to the sport.”
“We’ve trained most of our lives for this,” said Brutalist. “It’s f—ing mind-boggling to watch the so-called ‘face of the brand’ eat s— at the first show of the year. A dead rat has more grace and finesse than this brain-searing debacle of a wrestler.”
Exclusive: The Rassler Teases “Somethin’ Real Big” After Embarrassing Entry Botch
Reported on 8 January 2020
Las Vegas, NV — Though best known for his over-the-top cowboy persona and crowd-pleasing antics, Worldwide Action Promotion’s darling has had more on his plate than usual.
It all began on Saturday, during the brand’s annual Stomp Shop show, The Rassler made his usual entrance. He fired a dazzling spray of confetti from his bright red shotgun, which he affectionately calls his “Mixtape Blaster”. Fans went wild as he smiled and waved. Unfortunately, plans went awry when he began hustling down the entry ramp.
According to The Rassler, one of the spurs on his trademarked cowboy boots caught on the floor as he neared the ring. The result was unforgettable. Fans have since dedicated countless hours to turning the honest mistake into a massive meme. Always the jokester, Rassler even suggested to WAP reporter Kanaya Maryam that he change his name to “The Slipster”.
Now, with WAP’s usual Slugfest show just hours away, The Rassler is trying to shrug off his mistake. This morning, in a special statement to Wrestling Insider Press , the beloved Superstar claimed that “somethin’ real big is dropping.” However, he did not elaborate further.
Wednesday
8 January 2020
Las Vegas, Nevada
Dave Strider entered the wrestling world as a teenager. He’s played more than a few personas, but his current gimmick, The Rassler, is his most successful. It plays into his natural penchant for insincere showmanship and aloof confidence. And in doing so, it perfectly covers for that nagging sense of inadequacy that constantly lurks at the back of his mind.
He thinks of his life as a natural progression. He learned to fight — truly fight — the hard way. When he escaped his childhood home, he threw himself into turning those skills into a profitable career. By then, he’d already built strict partitions in his mind. All doubts and worries go in one box; the brash, over-the-top swagger he needs to succeed in the industry goes in another. He keeps these two things rigidly separated and spends most of his time forcing the more flamboyant half to the forefront.
Maybe that’s why he finds himself so intrigued by the brand’s newest personality.
Karkat Vantas, dubbed “Brutalist” by Worldwide Action Promotion’s writing team, wears his heart on his sleeve. His peculiar necromancer gimmick hides no secrets. He’s loud, brash, and cultivates few friendships. But he doesn’t strike Dave as the usual loner; he’s never given off a “not here to make friends” vibe. Even now, as he throws out canned lines to start a fake rivalry, there’s a strangely familiar bitterness lurking beneath his voice.
A hand grabs Dave’s shirt. The loose curls at the tips of a mop of black hair brush against his forehead. Bared teeth linger inches from Dave’s nose. “Your line, dumbass,” Karkat growls. His voice is low and hoarse; he’s lowered the microphone enough to keep the audience from hearing him. “What goddamned planet are you on, dumbass?” the already solid grip on the lapel of Dave’s leather jacket somehow tightens. “Say your line.”
Dave’s breath hitches in his throat. He thanks his past self for adding a pair of reflective aviators to his signature outfit.
Beads of sweat form against a backdrop of rich medium brown. An arching nasal bridge is slightly misaligned and crossed by a small, thin scar. Full lips are pulled into a downright murderous snarl. The full experience — everything that makes Karkat who he is — hovers a sneeze away from beating Dave half to death, and he can’t exactly say he hates it.
“No,” he reminds himself, “Deal with this later. Focus on the show.”
A switch flips in his brain.
He shoves Karkat back and raises his own microphone. “Get out of my face, pal,” he ad-libs. For the first time in years, he’s forgotten his lines. But he knows the assignment, and he’s always been good at last-minute adjustments. “You’re new here, ain’t you? Well, let me just lay down some ground rules.” When he smirks and raises his arms in the air, the crowd cheers. That familiar, addictive buzz massages away any lingering doubts.
He stomps forward, leaning into each step to amplify the noise level. He stops when he’s less than an inch from Karkat. Straightening his back emphasizes their nearly one-foot height difference. “First of all, you can’t just come in here and act like you own the place. Second of all, I ain’t afraid of you. Third and most importantly, you don’t mess with me.”
The crowd grows louder.
“As if I’d care about someone as insignificant as you, Rassler.” The comment draws a fair amount of jeers from the audience. “You can’t even enter the ring without falling on your ass. Why don’t you fight me for real next time?”
“Fine!” Dave shrugs. “I’m free Saturday.”
Karkat aims a solid uppercut at Dave’s chin. It’s backed by all his weight and is clearly meant to be a legit hit. The tension in his shoulders is real. He’s genuinely pissed.
Fortunately, Dave dodges. He laughs it off before casually tipping his hat and sliding out of the ring.
-----
Dave doesn’t see his corporate-assigned rival again until the show is almost over.
Truthfully, he didn’t have to stay the rest of the night. He was only required to appear and start a rivalry with Karkat. He could have left two hours ago. Instead, he’s voluntarily lingered backstage. He’s done some training and wandered through the VIP ticket area. He’s signed autographs and posed for photos.
Now, he stands before a cheap, beaten-down sofa in the lounge. He removes his white hat and prepares to settle in for a rest.
He hasn’t gotten much sleep the past few days. Despite his insistent requests, the company keeps giving him high-rise luxury suites. The beds are too soft, and the lodgings are far too upscale for his taste. He’d rather sleep on a cheap couch than a goose down mattress. The show still has another hour to go, and Dave figures he’ll get at least half an hour of sleep.
Instead, the world decides otherwise.
The door to the lounge slams open.
Karkat storms in. Without his black duster coat and ridiculous gimmick outfit, it’s easier to assess him. Like Dave, he doesn’t bother with the juicing and dehydration regimens more traditional wrestlers use. There are no angular lines or bulging veins. He’s earned his muscles through practical labor; he’s built rounder and softer. His temper, however, is all razor-sharp edges and finely honed points. Even without a microphone, his voice is loud and crisp. “You,” he jabs a finger at Dave, “What the fuck was that? None of that was in the script, you gormless motherfucker. I swear on my mother’s grave, Strider, you’re the most infuriatingly impossible person to work with.”
The vitriol of Karkat’s commentary prompts Dave to look for a camera crew, but there’s none in sight. This is, apparently, a legitimate grudge.
“Are you even listening to me?” Karkat snaps thrice in front of Dave’s face. “Anyone home up there? Look, maybe you can get away with a pretty face, but not all of us can be the world’s cruiserweight equivalent of a hoss. Some of us actually have to work our asses off to get here, and we don’t appreciate smug bastards like you rubbing your genetic successes in our faces.”
Dave blinks, dumbfounded.
As far as he’s concerned, he’s fairly average. Maybe if he weren’t as pasty white as a bottle of glue, he’d be getting some attention for his looks. But by his own estimates, he’s far from the most attractive person on the roster.
Apparently, staying silent was the wrong move.
Karkat’s fingers curl into fists. His brows furrow. “People like you drive me goddamned insane. Whatever. Just don’t expect me to play nice on Saturday, asshole.” With that much said, he turns and leaves before Dave can respond.
Saturday
11 January 2020
Las Vegas, Nevada
As far as Karkat Vantas is concerned, “The Rassler” is the most annoying persona in the history of wrestling. It’s an unbearable, grating, and downright unpalatable pastiche of more memorable gimmicks. Unfortunately, the sheer simplicity of the setup mandates a skilled performer. As much as he hates to admit it, Dave Strider is more than a pretty face. He’s a master of pop and an expert crowd manipulator. He has a natural, all-around charisma that Karkat has never been able to perfect, and that fact he been powering his latest tailspin. Today’s planned outcome — an “all-around dominating win” from his rival — feels like lemon juice in an open wound.
In theory, as a newcomer, Karkat shouldn’t push his luck. From what he’s gathered, he only made this year’s Worldwide Action Promotion cut through a series of nigh-miraculous coincidences. The first pick was arrested for vehicular manslaughter. The second died in a tragic snowboarding accident. The third allegedly fled the country for unknown reasons. The fourth, fifth, and sixth choices ended up being part of a crime syndicate. Thus, left without any other options, WAP was forced to choose its seventh top pick.
He should do what he’s told, play nice for the season, and talk things out backstage once he’s gained even a modicum of momentum.
Of course, he does anything but.
He’s already fuming over his characterization. He’ll freely admit that he had no real character or angle when he joined. He’d never bothered making one; he’d never needed one. But, according to the WAP, he’s now the Brutalist, a disgruntled historian with a penchant for necromancy. It’s the most absurd load of shit he’s ever heard in his life, and he’s the one forced to sell it.
The addition of “Cotton Eye Joe” to Dave’s entrance pushes the entire experience into nerve-pinching territory.
By the time he registers the sound of the bell, he’s ready to hand Dave even an ounce of the embarrassment he’s felt since his introduction. He shoots the first few punches, absorbing them without a reaction, and smirks when Dave’s brows furrow. He uses that moment of hesitation to grab the front of Dave’s button-down shirt and yank him into a nose-to-nose hold.
Dave says something, but his voice is muffled by the static thrumming of the crowd.
Karkat ignores the missed commentary. He lands a few real, solid punches to Dave’s gut before releasing his hold.
Once freed, Dave doubles over and stumbles backwards. He has only a few seconds to recover before Karkat rushes forward and slams a shoulder into his chest.
Admittedly, it’s a dirty play. Karkat knows as much. He’s gambling on his ability to pull a hit that’s hard enough to be real and soft enough to avoid causing any serious injury. But his mind is buzzing with adrenaline. As he watches Dave fumble to regain composure, his feet propel him towards the ropes. He leans in and lets the momentum propel him directly into his opponent.
Dave hits the mat with a satisfying slam.
Karkat goes in for the pin.
Opening with real punches at the fake fighting event may not be the fairest way to win, but it’s still a win. By that third slap on the mat, Karkat’s riding a natural high. He barely remembers what he says to the stunned interviewers, but he’s sure half of it will be censored.
When he’s done, he leaves Dave groaning on the mat. He leans into his role as a heel as he hops over the ropes and struts out of the ring.
Chapter 2: Blessed by the Union, Freedom of Man
Notes:
Chapter title from DragonForce's "Cry Thunder". Content contains a fake Twitter thread in the last half.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Tuesday
14 January 2020
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
As far as Dave can tell, most of his fellow wrestlers prefer booking private jets and flying at “normal” times. He can’t exactly fault them for the practice, either. They never have to worry about running into fans or rearranging tight schedules. There’s also the luxury; a premium jet seat is often far superior to even the nicest first-class offerings on public planes.
Dave, however, has never been able to justify the cost of each trip. Money may not be a problem in his life, but it’s hard to break old habits. Even with his generous pay, he’d rather keep $5,000 in his pocket than shell it out for a fancy three-hour trip. He’ll even opt for a first-class rail ticket over an airplane whenever possible. Frugality has been beaten into him since birth, and even the most lavish paycheck can’t deprogram those impulses. And while his coworkers often rib him for taking standard red-eye flights, he genuinely enjoys them more than a private trip. As long as he shoots for red-eye flights, he rarely runs into fans, and he’s never been one to turn down the chance to cheer someone up. If he truly wants privacy, he can always upgrade his ticket.
Not that it really matters.
His flight to Toronto was as uneventful as they come. He saw only three other people, and none of them recognized him. The airport is similarly barren. Only a handful of bleary-eyed travelers wander through its massive atrium. The A&W is similarly abandoned, and he enjoys his meal in blissful solitude. But as he exits the restaurant, his usual plans change.
A familiar voice draws his attention to none other than Karkat Vantas.
“Let me see if I’m understanding this correctly,” he says through gritted teeth, “I paid you almost eight hundred dollars to rent this car. It’s a” — he glances at the crumpled note in his hand, — “Luxury Audi or BMW, yes?” A brief pause allows the operator to answer, after which Karkat continues, “Great! That’s exactly what I wanted. The problem I’m having here is that your agent is telling me there’s not a single goddamned car matching that description. But — and this is fucking huge — you still want me to pay the full goddamned price for some beaten-down Kia.”
“Keep walking,” Dave thinks, “None of this is your business.”
Despite what his logical side says, he can’t help but linger. He buys an entirely unnecessary soda from a nearby vending machine and starts drinking. He leans against a nearby structural pillar and tries to act casual as he listens to Karkat’s car rental woes.
“Yes, yes. I know it’s not your fault, ma’am. I’m terribly sorry that you’re the one stuck in this position, but my point is that I will not pay you an extra $250 for a car that I do not want to drive. Is that crystal fucking clear?” Judging by the deep furrow of his brow, the answer he gets is the opposite of what he wanted. “You… You’re fucking canceling my reservation? Wait! WAIT A MOTHERFUCKING MINUTE!” His volume has drawn the scrutiny of a few tired travelers, but they quickly decide they have better things to do.
Dave, however, does the opposite. With all the misplaced confidence he can muster, he trots over to his distressed coworker.
Karkat looks up. The minute his gaze meets Dave’s, he scowls. “Just my fucking luck. What do you want?”
“I figured I’d try and help.” The comment receives no reaction. “You’re new to the roster, right? You don’t really need a rental ‘round here. Fairmont’s just across the street.”
“They put you in the Fairmont? No, that makes sense. More cash for the veteran talent.” Karkat rolls his eyes. “I’m in the Holiday Inn. It’s seven blocks away, and it’s below freezing outside. Maybe you are a sadomasochist with a hard-on for frostbite, but I’m not. So, kindly piss off.”
“Then how about an upgrade? It’s an apartment-style room, and I always take the couch. It’s not like you’re paying for that room, right? Hell, I’ll let you bum off the minibar, too.”
Karkat opens his mouth. He’s angling to fight back; the tension in his shoulders and the growl preceding his reply make that much clear. But, after a moment of thought, he sighs. He tugs at his backpack and runs his fingers through his hair. “Fuck. Fine. I’m not stupid enough to pass up free alcohol.” When he turns, the harsh white lighting bounces off a golden stud on his left ear. A small matching ring hangs from the corresponding nostril. The shadows beneath his eyes seem darker; his chin is covered in stubble. After gathering his things, he falls in step with Dave, purposefully keeping himself on the right side.
Like most airports, Pearson International is a sprawling monolith of nearly identical atria and concourses. After eight years of travel, Dave knows the route well. It’s a relatively brief and straightforward walk from their current location to the exit.
The tenuous silence between him and his new travel partner only seems to grow. It begins as a minor source of tension and morphs into an all-consuming beast. By the time they’re seated in the back of the taxi, it’s gnawing at Dave’s psyche like a stubborn rat. Finally, as the vehicle begins to move, he tries to start a discussion. “This your first time traveling?”
Karkat, formerly busy rolling and unrolling the loose length of strap hanging from his backpack, nods. “I’d never even been on a plane until today. So of fucking course it all went sideways.” A bitter smirk reveals that his left canine is strangely pointed. “I guess I should thank you for saving me from crashing out in the middle of the airport. That was” — he pointedly looks away — “surprisingly decent of you.”
“You didn’t seriously think that The Rassler act was genuine, did you? Maybe you have a real beef with me, but I don’t much give a fuck either way.”
“I’m not that stupid, Strider. I know it’s all an act. I’m not seriously raising people from the dead, either. It’s all a pointless, problematic act. Obviously, the Indian guy is just so fucking exotic and capable of practicing an unknowable and entirely fictitious form of dark magic. He can talk to all those zany Hindu gods, after all! Let’s make him call Shiva down to raise some zombies in the ring.” A huff of disapproval and a deep frown punctuate the sudden rant. “Give me a fucking break.”
“You can ask for them to change things, y’know. You ain’t entirely bound to your gimmick. It’s probably just an old character they had sitting in a dusty binder.” Impulse and habit drive Dave’s fingers to the inner pocket of his coat. They compel him to pluck out a cigarette and lighter. He rolls down the window as he places it between his lips and lights up. “Hell, one of my first gimmicks was as a goddamn runaway circus freak. Don’t tie yourself into a Mobius strip trying to think ‘bout it.”
Karkat sighs and turns to look out the window. The ever-racing streaks of sodium-hued streetlights briefly bounce off a hearing aid tucked behind his right ear.
Dave files the information away in the back of his mind before pushing the conversation ahead. “When did you start wrestling? I’ve been doing this shit since I was thirteen.”
“I started around the same time. I did freestyle wrestling in high school.” Thick, muscular fingers idly rap against a worn out black backpack. “I wasn’t actually that good at it, but I thought it was fun. When I went to college, I fell ass-first into some underground amateur wrestling club. Apparently, I’m magnitudes better at professional wrestling than real wrestling. It’s probably a side effect of all that time I wasted in drama club.”
“You went to college?” Dave whistles. “Ain’t you fancy! Where'd you go? Most I got was a Houston high school education. Never bothered going to school after that.”
The comment prompts a raised brow from Karkat. A vague hint of confusion flashes across his face; by the time it’s gone, he’s talking. “I went to Rutgers for political science. Clearly, that didn’t go as well as anticipated. It turns out it’s more profitable to fight than to slog my way through the political ladder. At the very least, I’m too much of a hothead to be a politician.”
“Well, assuming you’re ‘bout the same age as me, you’ve got plenty of time left for politics.”
“And how old are you?”
“Thirty.”
“You’re four years older than me, then.” Karkat digs through his bag and pulls out a package of salted peanuts. “Not that it matters, anyhow,” he rips open the plastic packaging and dumps a serving directly into his mouth, “It’s not like we’re going to become best friends.”
“‘Course not.” Somehow, Dave manages to mask an unexpected surge of disappointment. By now, the cigarette is reaching its end. The smoldering tip is beginning to singe the back of his fingers. After taking one final drag, he flicks away the hottest embers. The rest is extinguished against his palm. Once, years ago, this would’ve burned; now, it produces little more than a familiar sting.
“How did you even get such a stupid gimmick, anyhow?” Karkat’s eyelids are drooping. Like Dave, he’s starting to talk to stay awake. “Obviously, I didn’t pick this godawful Brutalist act. If I’d had my way, I would’ve just been a no-frills technical jobber.”
“They had an old hat and some matching bits of the costume backstage. It really ain’t that complex. I picked what they had, and I shaped it out from there. Took me ‘bout a year to start seeing results. After that, it just exploded, like, bang. I guess it’s more luck than anything.” A yawn slips through Dave’s defenses. He strings himself along with the knowledge that — at least according to his phone — they’re just a few minutes away from their destination. “Really, it ain’t deep. The dice rolled the right way for me. Maybe they’ll do the same for you.”
A cynical smirk crosses Karkat’s face as the car slows to a halt. “That’d be the fucking dream, wouldn’t it?”
Harold’s Wrestling News
✔
@wrestlingharold
EXCLUSIVE: The Rassler and Brutalist spotted together in a car on the way to #SaturdaySlam! What’s up with this feud? #WAPromotion
❤ 15.6K 9:12 PM - January 14, 2020
12.2K people are talking about this
Worldwide Action Promotion
✔
@wap_official
replying to @wrestlingharold
Is #BruRassler going mainstream!? 👀👀👀 Shit’s getting crazy in here. We think Harold deserves a free #SaturdaySlam ticket for this reporting, folks! 👊
The Rassler
✔
@rasslerofficial
replying to @wrestlingharold
this is obviously fake. the rassler ain’t going anywhere without his shades. 😎 this is just some lookalike rando. #FakeNews
BRUTALIST
✔
@rage_wrestler
replying to @wrestlingharold
THIS IS #FAKE AS FUCK. I’VE SEEN BETTER LIES SPEWED FROM THE GIBBERING MAW OF DYING ROADKILL. TRY HARDER NEXT TIME.
The Rassler
✔
@rasslerofficial
replying to @rage_wrestler
why is your pfp a crab? #LOL it’s kinda cute. need help changing it to an actual photo? 😂
BRUTALIST
✔
@rage_wrestler
replying to @rasslerofficial
I WILL RIP OUT YOUR FUCKING BRAIN STEM AND USE IT TO PLAY JUMPROPE. STOP TALKING TO ME.
WRESTLING MOMO
@kpop_fan_72596
replying to @rage_wrestler
squeeeeeeeeee!!!! #OMG IT’S HAPPENING!!!!!!!! WOWIE!!!!!!!!!!! THEY’RE GONNA DO IT SLOPPY IN THE LOCKER ROOMS!!!!!!!!!!!! 😍🍆
BRUTALIST
@rage_wrestler
replying to @kpop_fan_72596
I DON’T THINK I’M LEGALLY ALLOWED TO THREATEN FANS, SO I HAVE TO SETTLE FOR, “WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU?”
The Rassler
@rasslerofficial
replying to @kpop_fan_72596
the rassler would never do it sloppy in the locker rooms. 😤 think bout them workers. i’d at least keep it nice and clean. #SMH
Kanaya Maryam
✔
@kanmaryam
replying to @wrestlingharold
Your Reporting Is Always A Treat To Read, Harold! Might I Propose That We Name This #RassleList Instead? It Rolls Off The Tongue Easier. 😁
Rose Lalonde
✔
@rose_l_writes
replying to @wrestlingharold
Do ignore the icon right now. I accidentally deleted my PFP and required a placeholder. Anyhow, amazing reporting as always, Harold! Looking forward to new #RassleList news. 👀
momo the jester
@momo_42069
replying to @wrestlingharold
this is FUCKING WILD. #holyshit nobody could’ve seen this coming. the #BruRasslers are EATING tonight!!!!
the nasty police
@u_r_problematic
replying to @momo_42069
Wow. What the fuck is wrong with you? You can’t ship real people. That’s just gross and problematic. #canceled
The Rassler
✔
@rasslerofficial
replying to @u_r_problematic
actually... the rassler ain’t gonna say no to being paired with #ReyMysterio. what a fine man. mmmmmmm boy. don’t be a jerkass, yo.
The Phantom
✔
@phantom_wap
replying to @momo_42069
Are you the one writing all that fanfiction pairing my coworkers together? I’m not here to judge. I just want to know if you could send me the link. 👉👈
Booboo Kazoo
@boo_ba_boo
replying to @wrestlingharold
Does dear Harold ever sleep? I’m not sure he practices proper self care. #MakeHaroldSleep2020
Lenniford T. Frog
@lenny_frog
replying to @wrestlingharold
FROG LOVE TO WATCH WRESTLE. 🤼 LIKE TO SEE SWEATY PEOPLE DO BIG FIGHT. 🥊 FROG TURNED GAY BY WATER. 🐸 #RIBBIT — Posted from my #LilyPad3 smartphone! 🪷
The Mad Magician
✔
@madmagician_wap
replying to @wrestlingharold
Doesn’t anyone want to talk about me? My guest match with Mankind was fuckin amazin. Nobody appreciates my talent.
Notes:
IMAGE CREDITS (in order of appearance):
- Harold's Wrestling News is just Hide the Pain Harold.
- I designed the Worldwide Action Promotion logo as a spoof on the old WWE "Attitude" era logo. (Rose also uses the WAP logo because I was too lazy to make her an icon this time.)
- Dave and Karkat both use stock photos; Dave's is obviously deep-fried.
- The various "Momo" accounts are a spoof on how Rednote (小红书) users who want to remain anonymous will use this little pink dinosaur icon and the name "momo" as placeholders.
- "The Nasty Police" uses a cropped version of the Evil Patrick meme.
- The Phantom is from my favorite
badmovie ever made, Phantom of the Paradise.- Booboo Kazoo is a mascot for my good streamer friend, Mikiran. She doesn't actually like Homestuck; she was just nice enough to let me use the image. (Thanks for letting me use this in my gay fanfiction. Sorry I used it in my gay fanfiction.)
- Lenniford T. Frog is a lovely photo of my pet tomato frog, Lenny.
- Eridan is just Eridan. I'm not investing more time than necessary on my favorite one-off butt-monkey. Sorry.
Chapter 3: Come, Josephine, In My Flying Machine
Notes:
Just a short little 'tweener to lead into the next chapter. UwU
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Ringside Reporter
✔
@ring_insider_og
⚠️ EXCLUSIVE ⚠️ #WAPromotions announced a HUGE change to the #SaturdaySmash lineup. The match between #ThePhantom and #MadMagician is OUT. A match between #TheRassler and Brutalist is IN.
Yes
No
I¹m just here for drama
11623 votes • 3 days left
❤ 26.3K
1:30 PM - January 15, 2020
10.3K people are talking about this
gregor samsa
@i_am_bug_1915
replying to @ring_insider_og
former #WAPromotions reporter here! ☝️ this must mean they think this whole #RasslerList thing is going big time. can’t really see it myself. maybe that’s why i got fired? 🙄
The Mad Magician
✔
@madmagician_wap
replying to @ring_insider_og
This is clearly another attempt to derail my career. I’ve been here longer than that Brutalist asshole. Why does he get a spot on the #SaturdaySmash bracket?
Kanaya Maryam
✔
@kanmaryam
replying to @madmagician_wap
No, I Am Fairly Certain You Are Doing That To Yourself. You Just Are Not That Interesting Of A Wrestler. Sorry. #TruthHurts
Rose Lalonde
✔
@rose_l_writes
replying to @madmagician_wap
Kanaya is right. As always. And stop asking me to interview you, Eridan.
WRESTLING WOWO
@wowo_not_momo
replying to @ring_insider_og
OMG. more #BruRassler content?
Harold’s Wrestling News
✔
@wrestlingharold
replying to @ring_insider_og
Fuck you for stealing this scoop. I worked hard on this piece. I know it’s you, Annamarie. Stop leaking my hard-won insider reports! #JusticeForHarold
The Rassler
✔
@rasslerofficial
i’m so bored, y’all. what should i do? there’s. like. nothing to do round here. help a buckaroo out, huh? #bored
42%bother brutalist
6%watch shitty tv
39%order a pizza
13%play with the hotel safe
10256 votes • Final results
❤ 18.1K
1:45 PM - January 15, 2020
11.1K people are talking about this
BRUTALIST
✔
@rage_wrestler
replying to @rasslerofficial
IS IT ILLEGAL FOR ME TO THREATEN MY COWORKERS WITH BODILY HARM? THAT’S LITERALLY MY ENTIRE FUCKING JOB DESCRIPTION, ISN’T IT?
The Rassler
✔
@rasslerofficial
replying to @rasslerofficial
wow this is so fun! we have some real #friendship shit going down round here. 🍻 how sweet. anyhow, what should we do next? and it’s #RasslerList.
3%watch more tv
5%eat shitty pizza
46%post a selfie
47%hit the minibar
19981 votes • Final results
❤ 23.3K
5:12 PM - January 15, 2020
13K people are talking about this
BRUTALIST
✔
@rage_wrestler
replying to @rasslerofficial
I HATE YOU SO MUCH. I COULD SHIT MILE UPON MILE OF EXPOSITION ON JUST HOW MUCH I HATE YOU. THE AMOUNT OF HATRED I HAVE FOR YOU IS TRULY AMAZING. IT SHOULD REALLY BE STUDIED BY FUTURE SCIENTISTS TO TRULY UNDERSTAND ITS SEEMINGLY IMPOSSIBLE DEPTH.
BRUTALIST
✔
@rage_wrestler
replying to @rage_wrestler
THE DEPTH OF MY HATRED FOR YOU SURPASSES EVEN THE DEEPEST REACHES OF THIS GODFORSAKEN PLANET. I COULD TOUCH THE BOTTOM OF THE MARIANA TRENCH, AND IT STILL WOULD NOT EQUAL MY UNENDING DISDAIN FOR YOUR VERY EXISTENCE.
The Rassler
✔
@rasslerofficial
replying to @rage_wrestler
wow. waow. i’m so flattered. man, you really hate me that much? 🥹 that’s just so fucking sweet, bro.
the nasty police
@u_r_problematic
replying to @rasslerofficial
WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU PEOPLE?
Lenniford T. Frog
@lenny_frog
replying to @rasslerofficial
FROG WANT TO SEE BOY LOVE. 🌈 SWEATY FIGHT MEN SHOULD HUG. 🫂 THEN SEND FROG JUICY BUG. 🐛 #GAY #RIBBIT — Posted from my #LilyPad3 smartphone! 🪷
Lenniford T. Frog
@lenny_frog
replying to @rasslerofficial
FROG IS CONFUSED. 🤔 HOW FROG TURN OFF PHONE SIGNATURE? 🤨 HELP FROG PLEASE! ⁉️ #RIBBIT — Posted from my #LilyPad3 smartphone! 🪷
Worldwide Action Promotion
✔
@wap_official
🚨 BREAKING NEWS! 🚨 We’ve heard your cries. We’ve even heard The Rassler’s opinion on the “proper ship name.” So, we‘re here to announce some more (potential) #RassleList content THIS WEEKEND at #SaturdaySlam!
❤ 32.1K 8:20 PM - January 15, 2020
21.3K people are talking about this
Ringside Reporter
✔
@ring_insider_og
I love being right. I’m always right. I am truly the best of Worldwide Action Promotion’s unofficial coverage team. #FuckYouHarold
Notes:
IMAGE CREDITS (new icons, in order of appearance):
- Ringside Reporter is from The Abominable Doctor Phibes.
- Gregor Samsa is the Lucky Luciano meme.
Chapter 4: A Stallion Rises
Notes:
Lyrics from "Somebody Super Like You" from Phantom of the Paradise.
Chapter Text
Thursday
16 January 2020
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
Dave wakes slowly — very, very slowly. His mind swims.
A mild headache presses against his temples, and it’s not the usual soreness of a concussion. No, it’s familiar in an entirely different way; it’s a hangover. It’s a warm, aching nausea that churns his stomach and makes his vision spin.
“Jesus fucking Christ,” he thinks as he stumbles from the fold-out sofa bed, “what the hell was I doing last night?”
The answer hits like a steel chair to the face. An ice-cold glass of water is shoved into his hand.
“Great! You’re finally awake!” Karkat’s voice is like a sonic boom. “Come on, Strider, we have one day for you to shake this shit out of your system. I’m scheduled to win the next fight, and I’m not going to have my first fucking booked victory be against a hungover moron.” He points to the room’s five-person dining table, upon which is a large bowl of cereal and an equally sizable apple. “Now, I’m not sure what sort of dumbass shit you’ve heard about hangovers, but the real truth is that you can’t speed them up. The best you can do for yourself is to eat and drink.”
Normally, Dave would have a smart reply. Right now, however, his mouth is too dry to think straight. He eagerly drinks before trudging over to his breakfast. The lukewarm milk and soggy grains suggest the meal has been sitting out for at least an hour, but he doesn’t mind; he’s too hungry to be picky. He falls back into his old ways, shoveling spoonfuls of food into his mouth like a starving animal.
Karkat slumps into a nearby armchair. His wrinkled black sweatshirt bears a peeling logo for the Cuttlefish Cuties band. Faded gray and red checks adorn his well-worn pyjama bottoms. “I can only assume the alcohol drove you to try and show me those godsforsaken movies.” Though no hearing aid is visible behind his right ear, the gold stud still dangles from his left earlobe. The matching nose ring is also in place. Paradoxically, his voice is slightly quieter without the device in place. “They were all fucking awful, by the way. I just wanted to make that crystal clear. I have no idea what sort of infernal cinematic experiences you tried to expose me to, but I can only assume they were all used to torture prisoners of war at some point.”
Dave takes a minute to gather his thoughts. His mind lags behind more than usual. Eventually, he manages to scrape together a coherent reply. “Well… you seem more sober than me, so what do you remember?”
“I’d rather not relive any of it.”
“Fair enough.” Dave stares at his bowl. The cereal has become almost unpalatably soft, but over half the meal remains. So, he opts to lessen his suffering by chugging the rest like a particularly chunky soup.
Karkat responds to the act with a disdainful groan. “The saying really is true, then. Money can’t buy manners or taste.”
“Maybe don’t put the cereal out so fucking early next time, then.”
“As if there will be a ‘next time’. This is purely logistics, Strider. If there were any option that did not require me to share a living space with you, I would’ve taken it. I appreciate your courtesy, but this will not be happening again.” Now, Karkat gestures to a single aspirin on the table. “Take your medicine and shut the fuck up.”
Though Dave would never admit as much out loud, Karkat’s refusal to entertain his incessant attempts at friendship stings. Still, he maintains his usual air of aloof indifference as he forcibly changes the subject. “How much did I drink?”
“Enough to make me consider calling a rescue squad.” Karkat’s brows furrow. “I hope this isn’t how you normally act when you’re waiting for a show to start.”
“Nah. I was just abnormally bored this time ‘round,” Dave shrugs. His answer is honest, albeit incomplete. He opts to keep the source of the boredom to himself. “You didn’t drink at all?”
“I had a few cheap beers. Unlike you, I know my limit.” Karkat stands and stretches. Broad shoulders briefly push against the otherwise baggy fabric of his sweatshirt. An involuntary yawn escapes his throat. “It’s not my problem, anyhow. You do whatever the fuck you want with your money.”
“Minibars are always on the company dime,” Dave says in a weak attempt to cover his own immature tracks. “So, what’s your damned beef with me, anyhow?”
Karkat sighs. He produces a single hearing aid from a box in his pocket. “Well,” he slips the device over his ear and uses his thumb to jab the other end in, “I think I told you that already, didn’t I? You’re just another genetic lottery winner. Your apparent inability to grasp the complexities of anything greater than your ego doesn’t help, either. And thanks to last night, you can add a copious amount of puke to the already lengthy list of reasons for me to despise your existence.”
Heat creeps up the back of Dave’s neck and spreads across his cheeks. “Aw, fuck. Really? Sorry ‘bout that. I’m a sloppy drunk.”
“I noticed,” Karkat quips.
“So…” Dave begins.
Karkat’s brows furrow. “So?” he parrots.
At this point, Dave realizes that he hadn’t actually planned anything to say. He assumed his usual rambling tendencies would kick in. Instead, he finds himself staring down Karkat with a look of wide-eyed bewilderment. His cheeks burn even hotter.
Fortunately, Karkat is gracious enough to keep the tense conversation moving. “I guess I may as well admit that my left side’s completely deaf. Use that info as you see fit, Strider. I won’t remind you again.”
“Maybe tell me at a time when I’m not hungover?”
“No,” Karkat deadpans. “And your in-ring outfit is atrocious. I get the cowboy act, but that button-up shirt makes you harder to grapple than a godsdamned greased pig.”
“Maybe some of us don’t like showing it all off.” The words come out too sharply — too guiltily — for Dave’s liking. He tries to backtrack, but he knows the damage is done. “I mean… Not everyone gets to have that hot dad bod that makes the knitting circles swoon.” This, too, quickly registers as an astoundingly bad way to cover his tracks.
And Karkat seems to concur with the assessment. His brows rise, and an infuriatingly smug smirk pulls at his lips. “I have a dad bod? Is that what you’d call it? Most people just called me a brick shit house. That’s a new one, Strider.”
“Just… forget I said anything.”
“As much as I hate your loathsome ass, I’m not petty enough to blackmail you. I won’t apologize for kicking your ass in our second match, but I’d prefer to win fairly otherwise. So, consider anything you say here to be confidential. Whatever happens in this place stays here.”
“Thanks,” Dave moves to stand, but his vision swims. He quickly decides to stay seated. “How long have you been awake?”
“I woke up at the same time I always do.” Karkat tugs at the sleeve of his shirt and checks a bright red and gold watch. “I’ve been up since five, so you slept five hours longer than I did. Not that it matters.”
A slow nod serves as Dave’s reply. At this point, he figures he’s dug himself into a deep enough hole. For the first time in years, he keeps his mouth shut.
And the rest of the day passes as such — in tense, mind-numbing silence.
The only thing Dave can do is observe.
Karkat has a habit of licking his lips when he thinks. He spends most of the day reading a hefty romance novel. Otherwise, he’s popping sticks of nicotine gum or scrolling through his phone. When he’s about to sneeze, he rubs his left ear. He always stretches his left side before his right. Not that any of these things matter; it’s not like he and Dave will be in the same orbit for much longer. Come nightfall, Karkat closes and locks the bedroom door at precisely 10:30. The shower runs from 10:30 until 10:45, complete with loud and seemingly impulsive humming. Then, the light that peeks beneath the crack under the door shuts off.
Saturday
18 January 2020
Toronto, Ontario, Canada
The hot spotlights burn the back of Dave’s neck. The roar of the crowd seems to coincide with his heartbeat. He feeds off their energy, gasping it down as if it’s the last thing he’ll ever experience. No matter how many times he enters the ring, he gets the same buzz, feels the same wild rush. It makes it so easy to let his doubts slide away and assume an air of false arrogance. And when the bell rings, his body moves instinctively. He and Karkat lock each other in a standard grapple; they exchange their first spoken words since Thursday.
“You better make this a damned good show, Strider,” Karkat grumbles.
Dave responds with a smirk.
He breaks the hold by twisting Karkat’s right arm behind his back. Each wrenching motion is played up for drama. Already, he can feel sweat pressing the silky fabric of his shirt against his skin.
Karkat counters the hold. He flings Dave at the ropes and lands a hefty kick in the middle of his opponent’s chest on the rebound.
Despite the solid impact, the blow feels like little more than a hard slap. Dave has always had a high pain tolerance. Countless hours of practice only heightened it by teaching him how to properly take a hit. Even falling back against the mat barely fazes himself. Still, he fakes it; he writhes and groans. He waits until Karkat helps him to his feet before entering another grapple.
He continues leading the fight. Lifting Karkat isn’t entirely impossible, but it’s too much energy to expend this early. Instead, Dave throws a few canned punches. He dodges some hits before rolling Karkat into a faux pin. It’s too early; both parties know it. This is just for show. It’s part of the back-and-forth dance. Power flows from one fighter to the other; it’s a balancing act.
For a while, Dave gets to play the dominant role. He throws Karkat around the ring and pleases the crowd with some dives and aerial attacks. It’s second nature to him; it’s part of his soul. He knows how to use the ring to his advantage. Some call it parkour; others call it freerunning. Whatever it’s called, it’s uniquely his.
The roles reverse.
Dave steps back.
Karkat takes the lead.
By now, both men are drenched in sweat. Karkat still has plenty of energy, but he lacks Dave’s stamina. Grapples and fake pins offer a few seconds of downtime. He’s a technical bruiser — someone with skill and power. What he doesn’t have is a good grasp on pulling punches.
A strong kick slams into Dave’s stomach, pushing the air from his lungs. He stumbles back. “Shit,” he wheezes. He leans against the ropes and subtly gestures for Karkat to back down. “Pull it in, dude. Are you trying to kill me?”
After a few seconds, Karkat grabs Dave by the shoulders. “Not intentionally. Dodge left.” He aims a solid punch.
Dave moves out of the way.
The fight continues. Karkat reigns in his power. His hits still sting, but it’s far from unbearable.
It all eventually ends with a perfectly executed, classic suplex. Karkat claims a victory, and both fighters finally get to leave the ring.
As far as Dave is concerned, that’s the end of it. So, when Karkat approaches him in the showers, he’s more than mildly surprised. He also finds himself rushing to cover the twin scars that cross his chest. He fumbles with his bathrobe and manages to tie it off just before Karkat starts talking. Logic tells him that it’s a fruitless endeavor, but his ego hopes otherwise. He tries to play it cool — drop a casual “‘sup” — but it comes across distressingly strained.
The only comfort left is that Karkat seems equally uncomfortable by his own words. He breathes in and rubs the back of his right ear, nearly dislodging his hearing aid, before clearing his throat. Finally, with uncharacteristic hesitation, he speaks. “I need your help.”
Dave blinks. He opens his mouth, plans to say something, and slams his jaw shut. He’s unsure of what to say, and he wants to say everything. So, instead, he offers a confused hum.
“Of course! Let’s all make Karkat fucking suffer! Ugh. Fine. Look, I hate to inflate your ego, but you’re good at getting the crowd going. You have some sort of freakish charisma. You are, by the way, the most pathetic and annoying person on Earth. But you somehow have a disproportionate talent for getting the crowd to pop. So, teach me. I need you to teach me how to do that.” His brows knit together as his almost maroon-hued eyes flick towards the floor. “I can throw punches and grapple until I’m blue in the fucking face, but I’ve always been shit at getting a crowd to go wild. So… Show me how you do it.”
Dave, still in disbelief, responds with a bewildered stare. “You need me to help you?”
“I’m the one with bad hearing, dumbass. Yes, I need you to help me. Don’t make me repeat myself.”
A strange lightness lifts Dave’s heart into his throat. His stomach flutters. He spends at least five seconds too long beating back these feelings before responding in the most blasé voice he can muster, “Yeah. Sure. I can do that.”
Karkat’s shoulders relax. He doesn’t smile, but there’s the tiniest hint of relief etched onto his face. “Thank fuck. Now I can go back to ignoring you.” And with the matter settled, he leaves.
Chapter 5: Too Close to Three Mile Rock
Notes:
Chapter title from Stan Roger's "Mary Ellen Carter".
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Harold’s Wrestling News
✔
@wrestlingharold
Last night’s match between The Rassler and Brutalist is the talk of Chittr! Share your thoughts!
47%Amazing!
12%Okay!
12%Hated it!
28%Nuanced opinion!
17316 votes • Final results
❤ 31.2K
8:54 AM - January 19, 2020
15.4K people are talking about this
Lenniford T. Frog
@lenny_frog
replying to @wrestlingharold
FROG IMPRESSED! 😍 FEEL BIG BIG HAPPY! 😍 SWEATY MEN DO BIG HIT! 🤼 — Posted from my #LilyPad3 smartphone! 🪷
momo every day
@momo_rva
replying to @wrestlingharold
not gonna lie, harold! it was a little disappointing. i really love #RassleList, but brutalist really needs to work on his crowd skills. he’s just kinda meh. good thing he’s paired up with rassler, i guess? 🫤
Worldwide Action Promotion
✔
@wap_official
replying to @wrestlingharold
The crowd was going wild! Maybe we’re biased, but we think that #RassleList match was the highlight of the night. 🌟🌟🌟🌟🌟 And someone told us they were chatting backstage after the match. 👀
BRUTALIST
✔
@rage_wrestler
replying to @wap_official
I LITERALLY CANNOT GET A SINGLE FUCKING MINUTE OF PEACE AND QUIET WITH THIS COMPANY. ISN’T THIS SOME SORT OF WORKPLACE VIOLATION? HARASSMENT, MAYBE? ISN’T IT AT LEAST CONSIDERED A BREACH OF PRIVACY TO RELEASE THIS SORT OF BULLSHIT PUBLICLY AND WITHOUT MY CONSENT?
The Rassler
✔
@rasslerofficial
replying to @rage_wrestler
did ya read the contract, buckaroo? they can do whatever they want. we’re kind of their property. it’s part of the whole “wrestler personality ownership and intellectual property” clause, don’tcha know? 🤓 #TheMoreYouKnow
The Rassler
✔
@rasslerofficial
replying to @rage_wrestler
ruh-roh, rollowers! looks like brutalist didn’t like that truth bomb too much. 🫢 #dang
the nasty police
@u_r_problematic
replying to @wap_official
this is like. *so* #weird and fucked up. you’re just treating these people like barbie dolls or something. what is wrong with you? every one of you needs jesus or something. #yikes
meemoo momo
@meemoomomo
replying to @wrestlingharold
i REALLY LIKED it! i thought it was PRETTY COOL. not a total #slugfest but definitely not a #sleeper match. 🙌 i’d give it ⭐️⭐️⭐️ out of five. #RassleList
[DATA HARVESTER]
@123456789
replying to @wrestlingharold
Aren’t you ready to be a [BIG SHOT]? Let’s make you [FAMOUS]! For just [16 EASY PAYMENTS] of $69.69, you can join America’s newest and greatest [PERSONALITY DEVELOPMENT CLASS]! Reply “[PENIS]” to join!
The Mad Magician
✔
@madmagician_wap
replying to @123456789
PENIS!
WRESTLING MOMO
@wowo_not_momo
replying to @wrestlingharold
they were talking a lot during the match. what do you think they were saying? 👀 i thought i saw rassler say something like “get your hand off my ass” at some point? not very #romantic. 😤
gregor samsa
@i_am_bug_1915
replying to @wrestlingharold
hate to say it, harry! but that was a #snoozefest from brutalist. 😪 he’s got the technical stuff down, but he can’t get much pop from the crowd, can he?
The Rassler
✔
@rasslerofficial
so i think i may have uhm. 👉👈 been #blocked by brutalist? hey #buddy #pal #buckaroo what did i do? is this about me eating that leftover chili and cheese dog in the fridge?
❤ 15.9K 1:13 PM - January 20, 2020
8.1K people are talking about this
The Rassler
✔
@rasslerofficial
replying to @rasslerofficial
is this about me eating that chili cheese dog in the fridge? i’m real sorry about that. can you maybe #unblock me and we can talk it out?
BRUTALIST
✔
@rage_wrestler
replying to @rasslerofficial
HOLY FUCK. WHAT THE FUCK IS WRONG WITH YOU? GET A LIFE. I WAS ASLEEP AFTER A GODAWFUL PLANE RIDE. YOU WEREN’T BLOCKED.
camembert appreciator
@cheddar_man
replying to @rasslerofficial
If you check the user’s profile page and can’t see anything, it means they’ve blocked you. Unfortunately, I am a cheesemonger, not an IT pro. I can’t help beyond telling you that.
[BE A CELEBRITY]
@totally_sus
replying to @rasslerofficial
Looks like you’re trying to get [UNSUBSCRIBED] from a user. 🫵 Do you need help? Type “[NUCLEAR FISSION]” now to get help using Chittr and gain new #followers fast! 🐤
The Mad Magician
✔
@madmagician_wap
replying to @totally_sus
NUCLEAR FISSION!
Booboo Kazoo
@boo_ba_boo
replying to @rasslerofficial
Block his ass back. Get revenge.
Rose Lalonde
✔
@rose_l_writes
replying to @rasslerofficial
Dave, I think there might be slightly more professional ways to handle this matter. You can always consider calling Brutalist using information from the employee registry listings. Please stop making my job harder than it already is. 😒
momo the jester
@momo_42069
replying to @rasslerofficial
#uhoh is there trouble in #RasslerList paradise? 👀 looks like we’ve got some real drama. 🍿
The Mad Magician
✔
@madmagician_wap
Can someone #help me? I think my account got #hacked.
❤ 420 6:25 PM - January 20, 2020
21 people are talking about this
The Mad Magician
✔
@madmagician_wap
replying to @madmagician_wap
Are you looking for [INFECTED DEALS]? Now is the time to invest in your [PREDICTABLE OUTCOMES]! Reply “[GOOBER BALLS]” to get a #FREE educational guide to [MONETARY LOANS]. #loans #lifestyle #memes #spam #information #deals
The Rassler
✔
@rasslerofficial
replying to @madmagician_wap
l o — and i cannot stress this enough — l.
Kanaya Maryam
✔
@kanmaryam
replying to @madmagician_wap
Do Not Come Crying To Me About This Matter. I Have Informed You Many Times To Stop Falling For These Obvious #Scams, You Buffoon. This Is Not My Problem Anymore.
Worldwide Action Promotion
✔
@wap_official
JUST A REMINDER! ☝️ #WAPromotion wrestling will be taking a one-week break at the end of the month. But don’t worry! You’ll still get to see your favorite #superstars thanks to our yearly #HotshotSpotlight event. Keep reading to learn more! 👇
❤ 58.3K 12:15 PM - January 21, 2020
33.3K people are talking about this
Worldwide Action Promotion
✔
@wap_official
replying to @wap_official
The #HotshotSpotlight gives everyone a chance to shine. 🤩 Tune in at the usual #StompShop time on Saturday to see a two-hour special about your #faves. PLUS interviews with all your favorite old and new wrestlers!
Worldwide Action Promotion
✔
@wap_official
replying to @wap_official
And don’t forget to watch for a SPECIAL CODE at the end of #HotshotSpotlight. Snap a photo or write it down, then submit the code on our website to enter the #2025Wrestler Sweepstakes! 3 lucky winners get a free trip to see mid-February’s #StompShop!
Lenniford T. Frog
@lenny_frog
replying to @wap_official
FROG LOVE TO WATCH #WRESTLE. 🤼 FROG STAY UP LATE EVERY WEDNESDAY AND SATURDAY!!!!! 😍 BUT THEN FROG VERY TIRED. 🥱 BUT FROG STILL WATCH WRESTLE!!!!! #RIBBIT — Posted from my #LilyPad3 smartphone! 🪷
Thursday
23 January 2020
Richmond, Virginia
In all honesty, Karkat assumed Dave lived in a massive penthouse apartment. He spent the entirety of his mind-numbingly dull drive from DC imagining what sort of asinine displays of wealth Dave might flaunt. He thought of the sort of elite lodgings he’s seen on television — of marble-clad skyscrapers and all-inclusive multi-story dwellings — and easily pictured Dave ruling over it all like a king.
Now, he stands before the opposite of those visions. He finds himself double and triple-checking his texts.
Dave’s apartment complex is far from dingy, but it’s no luxury high-rise. Its perfectly ordinary modernist façade leads to a similarly mundane lobby. In fact, the only apparent luxuries seem to be a pool and a gym. There is no receptionist, and the elevator groans and whines like a dying animal. The wood paneling lining the walls begs to be returned to the 1970s.
Upon reaching the correct unit, he knocks hesitantly. He half expects someone else to open the door. But Dave answers. He’s dressed as if he’s expecting an old friend. His pyjama bottoms bear a repeating pattern of vinyl records and guitars, and an open bathrobe reveals a wrinkled Worldwide Action Promotion t-shirt. He greets his visitor with a similarly casual wave and beckons him into a somewhat cramped studio apartment. When the door closes, he offers an unbearably earnest smile. “It’s small, right?”
“You could absolutely live in a bigger place, Strider,” Karkat mumbles.
“Don’t see a need to. We’re on the road over half the year.” Dave buries his hands in the pockets of his plush red bathrobe and drops into a faded leather armchair. He turns sideways and throws his legs over the armrest as he continues, “Anyhow, I’m just gonna launch right into it. My hot take’s that you need to lean into your character. You’ve got a solid start. I mean, shit, most people have to build a persona from scratch. So, use what you’ve got.”
Karkat’s brows furrow. His jaw instinctively sets. “You’re saying to make an ass out of myself?”
“Nah, nah. You’re misreading it. I’m saying to make an ass out of your character . There’s a difference.” One hand reaches for a cigarette; the other gestures vaguely towards the empty sofa bed. “Look, I get it. You ain’t too set on your gimmick. But you’ve got to find something you like ‘bout it and run with it. That’s what they’re here to see, after all. If they wanted real blood and guts fighting, they’d just go to MMA or boxing.” Sparks fly from a black Zippo lighter to neatly rolled tobacco. Dave breathes in, pauses, and releases a plume of smoke from his nostrils. “I mean… I got bored on the plane ride back and scribbled down some ideas.”
Karkat sits on the overly springy folding mattress. “For Brutalist or for how you’ll pay for your lung cancer treatments?”
“Oh!” Dave’s eyes widen as he grinds his burning cigarette against a large, ash-streaked oyster shell on the nearby side table. “Shit, dude. Sorry. It’s just a habit.”
As much as he hates to give Dave any sort of win, social norms compel Karkat to respond cordially. “Thanks,” he squeezes out.
“No problem.” The way his eyes keep darting to the extinguished cigarette says otherwise. Still, he keeps the conversation moving. He pulls a wad of crumpled papers from his pocket and flattens them against his lap. “You’ve got a solid start, right?” He takes a pair of black reading glasses from his pocket. “You just have to find out how you want to play up the character.”
“I’m playing it up enough as it is, aren’t I?” Karkat scoffs. “If I ‘play it up’ any more,” air quotes are used to emphasize his point, “then we’ll be in territory hammy enough to be spiral cut and served on a silver godsdamned platter.”
“And that’s what you want. Look, I don’t really run around talking like a movie cowboy all the time. That’s part of The Rassler’s act. I don’t much care ‘bout half the shit I claim to in public. That’s the act. You’ve gotta be willing to clown a little if you’re going to make it in wrestling.” As if to prove his point, Dave drops his voice. He draws out his vowels and leans into his accent, “You gotta decide for yourself what your limit is, buckaroo. That ain’t my damned job. But you wanted me to tell you how to get that crowd goin’ wilder than feral hogs, and being a little goddamned nuts is part of it.”
Karkat sighs.
As much as he wants to refute Dave’s claim, he knows that every word is true. Even after eight cumulative years in high school and college drama club, he’s always been hesitant to drop every inhibition.
And Dave latches onto that insecurity like a rabid dog. “That,” he says as he jabs a finger in Karkat’s direction, “that sulking ain’t what you need. You need to get ballsy ‘bout it. Throw yourself out there and don’t give a single fuck ‘bout how it looks.”
“Easy for you to say, pretty boy.” The words fly from Karkat’s lips before he can stop them. Once they’re spoken, he slams his mouth shut.
Dave blinks. His brows furrow. “You uh… You saw it in the locker room, didn’t you?”
“Saw what?” Karkat’s heart slams against his chest.
“He thinks you’re gay for him now, idiot,” hisses the voice in the back of his head.
“Shit. You won’t tell anyone, right? I mean… There’s nothing wrong with it. And I’m not exactly ashamed ‘bout it. But it’s just… You and I both know the fanbase of this sport ain’t exactly the most progressive of sorts. Even with all the positive changes, we’re still lagging a few years behind.” Dave’s eyes flit from one thing to the next. He’s purposely avoiding eye contact as much as he’s dodging an explicit answer to Karkat’s question.
So, Karkat repeats himself — more plainly, this time, “I have no fucking clue what you’re blabbering about, Strider.”
“Oh.” Dave’s frown deepens. For a split second, he seems prepared to change the subject. Then, with more force than is necessary, he blurts out his point, “I’m trans, dude. It’s not exactly a secret backstage, but you cannot go blabbing it to public outlets. Despite this being an entire sport centered on sweaty men beating the shit out of each other, a lot of fans are real obsessed with masculinity. So…”
“And why would I care about that? It’s your issue, Strider, I’m just here for the lessons you promised me.”
Finally, the tension dissipates from Dave’s shoulders. “Easier solution than I expected, honestly.”
“I’m not that much of an asshole,” Karkat huffs, unsure of whether he should be offended that Dave had him penciled in as a transphobe. “I genuinely don’t care, and it’s not my place or prerogative to be blabbing about your personal problems. My lips stay fucking sealed.”
Dave’s reply is surprisingly, gut-punchingly genuine: “I appreciate it.”
It’s enough to make Karkat squirm.
Vulnerability has never been his specialty. He’s always hated showing anyone his weaknesses. More importantly, he feels as if he barely knows Dave. At most, he’d consider him a barely tolerable coworker. Everything about the situation is too personal for an interaction he desperately wants to keep in the professional lane, and he finds himself frantically trying to rebuild the wall of indifference.
“Just go back to what you were saying about making an ass out of yourself in front of an international crowd.”
“Yeah, that,” Dave nods. He, too, seems eager to steer things back on track. “So, you’ll want to figure out what makes Brutalist special. You’re good at the bruiser style, so lean into it. Make yourself powerful and intimidating. Go for some Undertaker sorta shit.”
“You do realize that shit works because the Undertaker is taller than both of us, don’t you?”
“Doesn’t matter. Lean into it. Ham it up. You’re already pretty good at looking like you’re perpetually pissed off, so keep doing it. Make that your character and play into it.”
Again, Karkat wants to argue.
Again, he finds himself on the losing side. As much as he hates to admit it, Dave has more than a few good points. “Fuck. Fine. I’ll try it.”
Without warning, Dave stands. Removing his robe exposes his arms — stretches of pale skin, covered in criss-crossing scars. A tattoo of a crow, its wings spread wide, occupies his left bicep. “You hungry?” he asks.
“What the fuck?”
“Hunger. It’s when you haven’t eaten in a while. Are you hungry?”
“I know what it means, smartass. I just didn’t expect you to drop the question on me like that. Do you always say whatever the fuck you want?”
“Pretty much,” Dave smirks and folds his hands behind his head. “So, are you hungry? I’m going to go get a burger.”
Part of Karkat wants to say yes. It wouldn’t be a lie; he drove non-stop and hasn’t eaten anything since breakfast. But he doesn’t want to seem eager or owe Dave anything. So he stifles his reluctance and retreats behind his usual veil of anger. “Go eat. I brought food with me.”
“You sure?” Dave’s brows rise above the rims of his black readers. “I can bring you something back.”
“I don’t want your fucking charity, Strider.”
“Sheesh!” Dave raises his hands facetiously, but there’s a hint of genuine betrayal in his voice. He shrinks back ever so slightly. “Fine! You can… uh… stay on the sofa tonight.”
Karkat says nothing more. Instead, he keeps his raging confusion bottled up as he watches his host slink out of the apartment.
Notes:
The new images are all free use images from Wikimedia commons and Spamton.
Chapter 6: How They Dance in the Courtyard
Notes:
Chapter title from The Eagles' "Hotel California".
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Friday
24 January 2020
Richmond, Virginia
Everything about Karkat seems tailor-made to drive Dave Strider insane. His furrowed brows have formed a shallow, premature wrinkle along his forehead. His frown, too, has etched thin traces of its near-constant presence onto slightly rounded cheeks. Now, in the harsh white gym lighting, a layer of slight stubble fills out the lower half of his face. A small bare spot reveals a scar that crosses the far left side of his lips. The rich brown skin spread over his knuckles is rough and calloused, and he wears a class ring on his left index finger. When his fingers run through his hair, it falls back into place as thick, soft sheets — like rolling fields of thick grains in a steady breeze.
He moves like he talks. Heavy, precise, and confident. His soft form is a mix of tough muscle mixed with fuller spots of excess. The sweat glistening on his forehead dances like stars against his skin.
“Stop being horny.” The thought flits across Dave’s mind just in time for a solid kick in the chest to lay him flat on his back. His vision swims; his next few breaths come out as surprised coughs. A shadow looks over him. As his vision clears, he recognizes it as Karkat.
“Are you even paying attention?” His sparring partner’s voice is the same as always — not too low, but underpinned by an almost sensual growl. “You’ve been standing there like a wide-eyed baby deer for the past three minutes.”
“Shit.” Dave stumbles to his feet. “I got distracted,” he lies unconvincingly. He’s never been a decent liar. “What were we talking ‘bout again?”
“You ran your mouth about having a ‘personal brand’ in the ring, then you lapsed into the dumbest silence I’ve ever seen. If I gave half a damn about you, I’d dial an ambulance to report some sort of stroke.” Thick arms cross across a wide, sweat-streaked chest. Flaring nostrils highlight a golden nose ring.
“Yeah. Shit.”
Dave’s gaze lingers on the way Karkat’s muscles move — how they push and roll the layer of fat like dough, each movement causing a wave against his skin. His heart slams against his chest. A buzzing warmth spreads across his pelvis. He curls his fingers into fists and presses his nails against his palms. Normally, the sting grounds him; right now, it’s an annoyance akin to a mosquito bite.
He opens his mouth, fully intending to say something halfway intelligent. Instead, he blurts out the first thing that pops into his head: “You’ve never gotten a tattoo?”
Karkat blinks.
Dave tries his best to salvage an already bizarre and awkward situation. “Most wrestlers have ‘em, y’know. I’m just surprised you don’t.”
“I’m a failed poli-sci undergrad, Strider. Where the fuck do you think I’d get money for a fucking tattoo?”
“You got a point there.” Dave punctuates the statement with a well-meaning smirk, but the expression receives no response. So, he gracelessly dives headfirst into the next topic. “Okay. Let’s start with the basics. What would you say your problem is in the ring?”
A look of deep thought crosses Karkat’s face. He idly cards his fingers through his hair, sending flecks of sweat into the air. “We can start with the fact that you’re the worst mumbler I’ve ever met in my miserable life. Do you know how impossible it is to understand you in the ring? I’ve done easier multidisciplinary debate analyses. I know you can drop that ear-grating accent. So, for everyone’s sanity, do it whenever you’re giving me feedback in the ring, hm?”
“Noted. What else?”
Karkat shrugs and buries his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants. A low hum rumbles from his throat as he wanders to the far side of the ring and leans against the ropes, arms folded firmly across his chest. “Aren’t you supposed to be the one teaching me? You said you had ideas for the character, dumbass. Fire away.”
“Right.” Dave swallows down the heat that threatens to turn his cheeks bright red. “You should probably put your ear back on for this, then.”
Surprisingly, the comment draws a genuine laugh from Karkat. “That’s a new one, Strider. What, did you forget what a hearing aid is called?”
“Honestly? Yeah.”
“Heh. I don’t actually hate the phrasing. Keep using it.” He stands long enough to exit the ring and grab his things. While he’s there, he rolls two bottles of water across the mat. He returns a minute later by sidling through the second rope from the top. “So,” he snags one of the waters and unscrews the cap, taking a long drink before he continues, “What are your allegedly prodigal plans?”
Dave, who had snagged the necessary items from the bag hanging on one of the corner posts, holds out a fake blood capsule. “Have you ever used one of these bitches?”
“Blood pellets? Yeah, sure. We fucked with them all the time in drama club.” The way Karkat carefully handles the object proves as much. “Why?”
“Have you ever done a mandible claw?”
Karkat’s expression hardens. “Yes, but why would I do so willingly?”
“Well, you are the Brutalist. And what’s more brutal than that?”
The way Karkat’s jaw is set clearly conveys the fact that he’s not buying it.
So, Dave pushes. “Hear me out, alright? Call it the Polluck. Play into that pissed off student theme. Your opponent bites the capsule, you start the hold, and — if you do it all right — it’ll look like you’ve ripped the inside of their mouth open.”
“That’s fucking disgusting.” The words are firm, but Karkat’s usual scowl has softened. Sable eyes glance at the blood pill in his hand.
Dave waves a pair of leather gloves in the air. “You’ll want these.”
Reluctantly, Karkat trades the blood capsule for the accessories. He slips them on slowly. “I cannot fucking believe this makes me more money than my goddamn college degree,” he grumbles. “Fucking bullshit. Fine. Whatever. If this is what it takes for me to pay off my loans, so be it! Come here.”
At this point, Dave realizes how awkward things are about to get. Still, he obeys. He steps forward and palms the blood capsule. “You have to time it right, got it? Start counting.”
“Three…” Karkat flexes the fingers of his left hand.
“Two…”
Dave tries to stare at anything other than the way Karkat’s right brow rises ever so slightly when he’s focusing on something.
“One…” Karkat moves in.
Muscle memory takes over.
It takes a fraction of a second for Dave to deposit the fake blood pill into his mouth and bite down. He opens his mouth again and allows Karkat to jam his loosely curled middle and ring fingers between his lips. They come to rest against the soft tissue beneath his tongue. A gentle downward shove, an urge to sell the move, forces Dave to his knees.
In the back of his mind, Dave wonders if Karkat finds the entire scenario as strangely sexual as he does.
And after a few seconds, Karkat withdraws his hand. The fingers of his left glove are now stained a thick, viscous red. A look halfway between disgust and acceptance crosses his face. “I hate to admit it, Strider, but it’s a dramatic move. I think I’d get some good pop out of it. Is this something Worldwide would approve?”
Dave is already chugging water.
The fake blood may not have any real taste, but it’s among some of the worst textures he’s ever had in his mouth. It takes most of the bottle for the thick, mucous-like substance to finally disappear. When it’s finally gone, he wipes whatever is left on his lips onto the sleeve of his shirt. Only then does he reply, “It’s already signed off for. I submitted a few ideas to the pile while I was on the plane.”
“Well then,” Karkat says, his voice thick with sarcasm, “I didn’t realize you were so tight with the company’s higher-ups.”
“Eh,” Dave dismissively waves his left hand, “it’s more that my cousin’s head of the writing team, y’know? Rose Lalonde. You’ve probably met her.”
A low hum rises from Karkat; his brow twitches. “You’re related to Rose? How? She’s nothing like you!”
“See,” says Dave, playfully drawing out the vowel, “it turns out being raised by different people makes you have different personalities.” He ambles over to the corner post and snags two towels from his bag. After tossing one to Karkat, he hangs the other around his neck. “Might also have to do with the fact that Rose went to college and got a whole bunch of fancy degrees. And I didn’t.” He takes another sip of water and checks his watch. “Damn. Well, I reserved two hours today. Looks like we’re ‘bout up.”
“Congrats, Strider, you can read a clock.” Karkat’s flat delivery makes it impossible to tell if he’s being genuinely rude or playfully sarcastic.
Dave decides to assume the latter. He buries his nagging sense of inadequacy and annoyance beneath a dry laugh, some self-deprecating humor, and a healthy dose of idle rambling. “I passed second grade, y’know. I may have barely passed, but I at least learned all them basics. I know my ABDs and all that. Hell, you might be shocked to learn that I even made it all the way out of high school before dropping academics like a hot fucking potato.”
The act seems to work. After exiting the ring, Karkat’s stance loosens. When he speaks, his tone almost borders on inviting — at the very least, it’s not outright hostile. “Well, hey, props to you, dumbass. I’m impressed that your measly little brain chugged along that long without overheating.” His silver class ring catches the light as he towels off his hair. “Anyhow, I suppose I should thank you for helping me. I’m only partially sorry for being a raging asshole, though.”
“It’s no problem. I don’t have much going on.”
The statement is no lie. Despite his in-ring persona, Dave has always preferred being alone. Or, perhaps, he’s simply grown accustomed to it. Outside his public fame, he keeps a tiny circle of friends and a severely limited social schedule. Even when he’s not touring with the company, he tends to be more of a loner.
Not that he’d admit as much to Karkat.
And Karkat certainly seems uninterested in learning that information, anyhow. He responds to the comment with a soul-crushing smirk and a brief rumble of laughter. “When you’re not acting like a total fucking tool, you’re almost fun to be around.”
Dave’s heart slams against his chest; his breath hitches in his throat. Even as he uses every ounce of willpower to will himself into a state of indifference, he ends up speaking without thinking. Rough, inelegant words tumble from his mouth like dribbles of drool: “You staying again tonight?”
Karkat’s reply is the exact opposite. He speaks without concern as he throws his things into his worn-down off-brand gym bag. “Nope. One of my friends is putting on a concert in Alexandria tomorrow. I’m heading back home tonight.”
“Oh,” is all Dave allows himself to say before chewing on the inside of his cheek. He gnaws at his own skin; otherwise, he knows he’ll say what he’s thinking. And the last thing he wants to do now is tell his fairly new coworker that he enjoys having him sleep on his shitty pull-out sofa. Neither his pride nor — as he is quite certain — the human resources department would be able to handle the fallout.
Mercifully, Karkat remains unaware of Dave’s innermost thoughts. He slings his bag over his shoulder and offers a short, lazy wave. “Again, thanks for your help. I’m getting out of here before the office workers start clogging the fucking freeways.”
Dave nods and stiffly imitates Karkat’s parting gestures.
Only after Karkat has left does he dare to breathe out. The slimy nothingness of fake blood has been replaced by the metallic taste of its real counterpart. He’s chewed his cheeks raw.
Worldwide Action Promotion
✔
@wap_official
We’ve been watching 👀 the responses to #HotshotSpotlight, and it looks like everyone’s still riding the #RassleList train. The interview with Brutalist really made a splash! 🌊 Let’s talk about it! Comment your thoughts below. 👇👇👇👇
❤ 107.2K 9:10 PM - January 25, 2020
41K people are talking about this
momo 2.0
@momoupgraded
replying to @wap_official
did i hear him right? he said he went to COLLEGE? #mindblown he went to fucking RUTGERS??? so he’s smart, cute, AND gay? #lifegoals 💖💖💖💖💖
pop a squat
@urtoiletskeeper
replying to @wap_official
Strange. His interview is waaaaay better than his personality in the ring. What gives? This guy know hows to play it up, so what’s with the sleeper matches? ⁉️
ooga booga
@coco_momo
replying to @wap_official
HEY! Doesn’t Rassler usually reply to these sort of things? It’s been an hour since they posted about the #HotshotSpotlight, and I haven’t seen *anything* from him. NOT! 👏 A! 👏 THING! 👏
the nasty police
@u_r_problematic
replying to @coco_momo
Maybe he has a life outside of Chittr? He makes assloads of money every day. He has better things to do than respond to you weirdos.
Harold’s Wrestling News
✔
@wrestlingharold
replying to @coco_momo
Last I heard, the #rumor was that he’s been spotted with Brutalist in Richmond, Virginia. I’m not sure how true that is, though. I can’t confirm the reports yet.
WRESTLING MOMO
@kpop_fan_72596
replying to @coco_momo
#OMG you’re right and he STILL hasn’t replied!!!!!!!
I Love Chevy Trucks!
@chevy_fucker
replying to @wap_official
he’s MEAN. i wouldn’t want to piss THAT GUY off! 😨
Ringside Reporter
✔
@ring_insider_og
replying to @wap_official
He’s an interesting guy. 🤔 One has to wonder what he’s thinking. Where is he taking this “Brutalist” persona? 🤔 He’s definitely going snarkier and meaner than many of his compatriots. But what does that mean?
Worldwide’s Brutalist Spotted in Richmond, Virginia!
Reported on January 25, 2020
From Rumbler News — Move over, WWE! Worldwide Action Promotion has taken the spotlight with their newest talent acquisition. “Brutalist” burst onto the scene just weeks ago, and his dramatic feud with The Rassler has fans buzzing.
Yesterday, Harold’s Wrestling News reported on Chittr that Brutalist may have been spotted in The Rassler’s current place of residence, Richmond, Virginia. While he cautioned his many readers to be skeptical of the information, Rumbler News has since obtained irrefutable proof of the statement’s veracity.
An anonymous tipster emailed our team exclusive footage of Brutalist leaving the Rowdy Times Gym. The Rassler was spotted leaving the same gym approximately three hours later. It is currently unknown if the two Worldwide Action Promotion wrestlers were training together.
Worldwide Action Promotion
✔
@wap_official
THE RESULTS OF THE #Wrestler2025 SWEEPSTAKES ARE IN! 🥳🥳🥳 It’s time to announce the winners! Congratulations to @lenny_frog, @wowo_not_momo, and @cheddar_man! Please check your emails for your free #StompShop tickets, valid for the #Pittsburgh event on February 15! 🥂
❤ 84.3 9:00 AM - January 25, 2020
1.2 people are talking about this
Lenniford T. Frog
@lenny_frog
replying to @wap_official
HOLY SHIT!!!!! 🎈 FROG WIN THING!? 🥳 FROG FILLED WITH JOY! 🎉 FROG GO SEE WRESTLING FOR REAL! 🤼 #YIPPEE #YAY #RIBBIT — Posted from my #LilyPad3 smartphone. 🪷
WRESTLING MOMO
@wowo_not_wowo
replying to @wap_official
GET FUCKING #HYPE!!!!! LET’S FUCKING GO!!!!! 😁😁😁😁😁
camembert appreciator
@cheddar_man
replying to @wap_official
🙌🙌🙌 Wow! For real? I didn’t think I’d win. This is so cool! 😀 I can’t wait to see a match live!
Booboo Kazoo
@boo_ba_boo
replying to @wap_official
I MADE AN ENTIRE BOT NETWORK TO ENTER THE GIVEAWAY, AND I STILL FUCKING LOST? 😡😡😡 THIS MUST BE #RIGGED!
Notes:
thanks for all the nice comments. (❁´◡`❁) all the new profile pictures on chittr (because fuck musk) are just random photos from my phone LOL.
Chapter 7: Of Silent Desperation, Never Speaking to a Soul [!]
Notes:
chapter title from Kris Kristofferson's "Casey's Last Ride". we're getting fucky with the CSS, kids. welcome to Glitch™, intellectually distinct Twitch. introducing some Karkat self loathing because I don't see enough people playing with his quadrant schtick in human terms. content warning for karkat stroking one out in a public bathroom near the end of the first segment.
Chapter Text
Tuesday
28 January 2020
Washington, D.C.
It’s not unusual for Karkat’s apartment building to be in a state of disrepair. Lazy owners and irresponsible management have always lurked beneath the boho-esque modernism of the complex. The surface veneer of “affordable modern living” is a ruse thinner than a circus clown’s act. By now, Karkat had grown accustomed to the conditions; he thought he’d seen everything.
This morning, as he stared at the bloated corpse of a dead rat floating in his toilet, he realized that daily inconveniences barely scratched the surface. He cursed under his breath as he fished the remains out and ferried them to the trash chute. Once he had fulfilled his role as the unwelcome intruder’s personal Charon, he opened his phone; he needed something to get him out of this place. Of course, he was promptly reminded of the fact that everyone else had moved on without him.
Sollux and Aradia had moved out of the D.C. Metro area four months ago. They were, as they put it, “exploring the great expanses of Silicon Valley” — whatever the hell that means. Terezi is still going all-in on her ascetic globetrotter phase. Nepeta, being the avid emergency veterinarian she is, has exactly zero free time.
The further down his list of acquaintances Karkat went, the more depressed he got. His disdain for the individual in question rose proportionally. After an hour of stewing in his mental filth, he finally broke down and texted the first work companion he could think of who didn’t make him want to rip out his brainstem — Kanaya Maryam.
At this point, he had considered staying in his apartment.
“It’s just one fucking rat,” he reasoned. “It’s one godsdamned rat. How bad could it be?”
The feigned machismo crumbled the second he saw a small shape dart out from behind his nightstand. After that, he immediately sprinted out of the building. If it were nice outside, he would have opted to sit in the park. Alas, the bitter cold drove him to where he currently sits — in a cramped corner booth within a run-down local coffee joint.
At this point, he’s been sitting here for approximately three hours. Thus far, he’s watched a shitty romance movie of a quality so dubious that he’s already erased its name from his memory, eaten three everything bagels, and successfully resisted the urge to order a third cup of mediocre coffee. His mind craves entertainment; his heart yearns for human interaction. So, he tries the only thing he can think of: He syncs his phone to his hearing aid and opens Glitch.
Now, as much as he’ll deny it when asked, Karkat Vantas has always lurked in Glitch chats. He’s far from a regular in any stream, but he’s no slouch. He knows the basics; he knows whom to ignore. He’s also been banned from a handful of channel chats, but he doesn’t entirely regret it.
Today, nobody is on — not anyone he recognizes.
There is, however, a peculiar streamer near the top of the website’s rankings. Verified user “DS120390” is currently playing Stardew Valley in front of a massive audience of over 20,000. Normally, Karkat would avoid such huge streams. He’s never been a fan of the rapid-fire chat messages.
But there’s no denying who the person crammed into the bottom right corner of the stream is. Even with a white cowboy hat casting shadows across his face, Dave Strider’s identity is readily apparent. Upon opening the stream, his voice is similarly recognizable. He’s speaking with that grating, over-emphasized Southern drawl that he uses in the ring. This isn’t Dave; it’s The Rassler. Despite the outstandingly awful camera quality, his voice is crisp and clear.
His pixelized character bears his likeness. Its pale face is partially obscured by a cowboy hat. Its bright red overalls bounce cheerfully as Dave rambles on, musing aloud, “Y’all think I should plant amaranth? Maybe throw down some yams?” He sticks a cigarette in his mouth and lights it with a match. “Hey, so I was thinkin’” — he shakes the match to extinguish its flame — “I missed my chance to plant them pumpkins. Damn. Oh, well. Can’t win ‘em all.”
orange-juice-fanatic: he hasn’t mentioned brutalist at all has he?
pee_uh_nis: Nope! I’m sure that’s why there’re so many lurkers, though. ...(*￣０￣)ノ
kvantas6696: YOU PLAY FUCKING STARDEW VALLEY? NERD.
goober-luber: OMG is that Brutalist? (⊙ˍ⊙)
jimmyjammer: i didn’t know glitch let people smoke on here
It’s impossible to see where Dave’s eyes are pointed, but his shades reflect the chat. Something gently tugs at the edges of his lips. A snort of nasal laughter underpins the bright chiptune music. “Y’know,” he pushes his accent, “I don’t usually call out people in the chat. But it looks like we’ve got a real buckaroo in here! What’s up, Brutalist?”
FrogFunTime: RIBBIT RIBBIT
GregoryPGregory: how do we know it isn’t just a troll?
kvantas6696: OF COURSE YOU’D NOTICE *ONE FUCKING USER* IN YOUR CHAT’S STREAM OF ENDLESS BULLSHIT. OF COURSE. IT’S JUST MY GODSAWFUL LUCK, ISN’T IT? I’M CONSTANTLY DOOMED TO BE NOTICED AT THE LEAST OPPORTUNE TIMES AND IGNORED AT ALL OTHER INTERVALS.
gringus_grungus_APA: holy wall of text, batman!!!!! (#`O′)
“Ain’t you just a peach?” Dave laughs.
The sound is like lightning down Karkat’s spine. It’s energy, pure and wild and vibrant, and it pumps like fire through his veins.
The pixelized farmer trots across an expanse of grass and begins plowing a field. Dave, meanwhile, exhales a plume of smoke from his nostrils. “Yeah, I definitely missed out on the pumpkins. Fuck. Well, we can make that cash back kegging some wheat and shit, right? It’ll just take longer.” Again, the edges of his lips flicker ever so slightly into an upturned smirk.
Even beneath the layer of pixelation, it’s driving Karkat wild.
HoldUpNow: You can also try planting sunflowers and pressing the oil!
holdens: backseat gamer up there
kvantas6696: YOU’RE PROBABLY BETTER OFF PICKLING SOME BOK CHOY. IT’S MORE VALUABLE. YOU’RE WELCOME.
Momo69: Brutalist plays Stardew?
kvantas6696: YES? IS IT SUDDENLY A CRIME TO PLAY VIDEO GAMES? IS THIS NOW ILLEGAL? IS EVERYTHING IN MY LIFE GOING TO BE LEGISLATED TO HELL AND BACK?
jungle-jim: It’s just that most people assume you wouldn’t find a wrestler playing Stardew, I guess.
u_r_problematic: Doesn’t someone like The Rassler have better things to do than play video games?
“Simmer down, y’all,” Dave sighs. A thin trail of smoke rises from his lips. “Who really gives a damn if Brutalist plays Stardew or not? It’s a fun game. Don’t be dicks ‘bout it.”
The microphone picks up the clacking of Dave’s mechanical keyboard. Each staccato pluck is like a hammer to Karkat’s chest. He can imagine pale fingers flying across the keys, assured and confident, and his mind wanders. He thinks about his last meeting with Dave — about the mandible claw hold. An aching warmth spreads across his chest and pelvis.
He squeezes his eyes shut.
What would it be like to have those hands on his skin?
Try as he might, he can’t get the image out of his head. He thinks of Dave’s rough, cold palms against his chest. The ghost of the intertwining aromas of tobacco, shea butter, and peppercorn fills his nose. Where he is soft curves and malleable skin, Dave is hard muscle and angular edges.
On his phone screen, Dave’s image shifts. He extinguishes his cigarette and stretches his arms above his head.
A surge of twisting, writhing shame fills Karkat as he closes the app.
“Fuck,” he mutters to himself.
“Fuck,” he repeats as he rushes to the bathroom. Within a sterile cube of muted blue tiles, he splashes cold water on his face. He presses the pads of his palms against his eyes. Stars appear in darkness — but something else is there, too.
It’s the thought of Dave, his shit-eating smirk, and his almost impossibly affable persona. It’s the lingering image of pale arms covered in scars and a tattoo of a crow mid-flight. His back, slick with sweat, is pressed against Karkat’s stomach as they tumble through the air. His knuckles ever so slightly graze his cheek in a carefully choreographed dance of simulated violence. Burgundy eyes dart to the left or right, signalling the hit, and Dave’s scent fills Karkat’s nose as their bodies barely miss one another. His hair — thick, fine, and unfairly soft — tumbles through Karkat’s fingers as they initiate a grapple.
“Fuck.” Karkat’s grip on the edge of the sink tightens. His chest heaves. “Fuck,” he hisses, stumbling into a nearby bathroom stall.
“It’s not exactly gay, is it?” he tries to reason with himself. He undoes his pants’ zipper and breathes in. “It’s just a fantasy. He’d never be interested. Out of the countless men on this planet, Strider could date anyone.” He plants one foot against the stall door to guarantee that nobody will bother him. Hedonism overpowers shame. His hand slides beneath the thoroughly worn cotton fabric of his boxers. Try as he might, the only image he can summon is Dave.
“Out of all the men on the planet,” he berates himself as his hips involuntarily rise, “it had to be that bastard. That stupid, godsawful pretty boy. Him, and his…”
The bathroom door’s under-oiled hinges scream in protest as it opens.
Karkat freezes.
The shame finally hits.
Sweaty, halfway through the most disgusting jerk-off of his entire life, and awkwardly crammed inside a public bathroom stall, he breathes in. The overly synthetic smell of baby powder and rose petals assaults his throat and instantly deflates his sexual high.
He remains frozen in place until the door opens and closes once more. Only then does he try to regain his composure. He zips up his pants and leaves the stall. He washes his hands with the hottest water he can stand. He uses the same water to splash himself in the face, but the stinging fails to mask his blossoming discomfort.
Clearly, he needs to double down on avoiding Dave like the plague that he is.
Thursday
30 January 2020
Richmond, Virginia
Roswell’s Diner isn’t exactly the epitome of luxury. At the same time, it cannot be fairly called a dump. It’s the average hole-in-the-wall diner that locals flock to whenever they need a quick bite. “Cheap, simple, convenient” — the motto says it all. For Dave, the biggest draw is anonymity. The place is always packed with people, so it’s easy to get lost in the crowd. The chaotic din muffles all conversations, too; anything said at Roswell’s stays in Roswell’s. It’s nigh impossible to eavesdrop and even harder to record conversations — Dave has tried. And the food isn’t bad, either.
So, as the afternoon lunch crowd rushes in, Dave squeezes into one of the booths along the wall. The television overhead drones faintly, relaying information about an ongoing golf tournament. Behind him, two couples are busy loudly discussing their latest orgy. The table directly ahead is occupied by a gaggle of college students — art kids, judging by the neon-dyed hair. To his left, an older couple is looking increasingly uncomfortable.
By the time he arrives, Rose has already claimed the pair’s spot and ordered a drink. She’s nursing a virgin martini and tapping her bright pink nails against the laminated menu. The glossy coat of polish matches the logo emblazoned on her otherwise black pullover sweatshirt.
“Aw, shucks, you actually liked what I sent you?” Dave comments.
Rose doesn’t bother with a warm greeting; she never has. “You mean this absolutely atrocious Squiddles merchandise?” She tilts her head to the side. “I must admit, I’m a bit surprised that you remembered my affections for this old show. I rarely mention it.”
“I like remembering things about my friends, I guess,” Dave shrugs. A few seconds later, after his brain has caught up with his mouth, he quickly amends his statement, adding, “Especially my dear cousin, of course.”
A wry smile flashes across Rose’s features, pulling gently at the edges of full, pink lips. “It’s good that you remembered our legal kinship, but you don’t need to constantly acknowledge it, Dave.”
“It just feels weird to group you in with the ‘friends’ category.”
“Yes, well,” — Rose prepares to say more, only to be interrupted by the waiter’s arrival.
Thankfully, both parties have done this routine many times. Dave orders a beer and a mushroom cheeseburger; Rose gets a grilled chicken salad.
Once the waiter disappears, Rose resumes the conversation. “We’ve been fully reacquainted for almost a decade, now, Dave. I can read between the lines.”
“Sure. Whatever. Anyhow, how’re things going with Kanaya? Last I heard, the rumor mill’s grinding out some strange shit ‘bout you two.”
Idly, he raps his knuckles against the nearby wood paneling and lets his eyes wander to the television. He’s never been a huge fan of golf, and he’s not at all interested in watching it. Right now, he just needs a momentary distraction. He watches men in meticulously pressed white polo shirts line up their swings as if it’s the last thing they’ll ever do. Part of him wants to say it’s silly, but he recognizes that he has little room to judge. It’s not like professional wrestling is any less convoluted. His mannerisms are rude; Dave will freely admit as much. But he’s never been comfortable holding eye contact for too long — especially now, as he willingly steps into a situation thornier than a barbed wire match, he’d rather keep his gaze averted.
Fortunately, Rose doesn’t mind. In fact, she also seems preoccupied. She picks up the paper sheathing from her straw and rolls it between her fingers as she speaks. “Complicated as always,” she sighs. “Her travels haven’t aligned with mine in quite a while. From what I understand, Worldwide Action Promotion is currently bundling her with their ‘prep team’, so she’ll always be one step ahead of us. We’re trying our best to make things work, but it’s surprisingly burdensome.”
“Wish I could help.” Here, Dave interrupts himself long enough to thank the waiter for his drink. Like Rose, he continues without missing a beat, “Alas, I’m a chronically single loser.”
“Of course, of course,” Rose nods sagely. “By the by, could you maybe stop making my life so much more difficult than it already needs to be? You might have fun prodding Karkat online, but I have to do the PR cleanup. And have I ever told you just how much I loathe that sort of work?”
“Never heard you mention it,” Dave lies. “But what’s there to clean up, anyhow? I mean, sure, I maybe get a little too rowdy, but he throws it right back. I don’t see much of an issue. And we’ve both seen them numbers. This RassleList shit is going fucking bonkers online.”
Rose clicks her tongue in disapproval. “Yes, the metrics suggest it’s currently one of our biggest social media trends. But have you considered that Karkat might not be as — as you say — ‘down to clown’ about this topic as you are?” Air quotes and a needling look emphasize her point. “Not to be presumptuous about his sexuality and personal preferences, but he strikes me as the type who may not be as openly flamboyant as you are, Dave.”
“As a wrestler?” Knowing the gravity of the situation does nothing to stymie the zeal of Dave’s laughter. “You’re saying he ain’t comfortable ‘bout being flamboyant as a fucking wrestler? Really, Rose? C’mon.”
He fully expects his cousin to laugh with him.
Instead, Rose’s expression only grows more serious. When she speaks, her tone is professional and cold, “Personally, I would be struck aphonic if Karkat isn’t bi. Professionally, I have to advise against publicly baiting your in-ring rival into anything he’s not ready to say aloud. In his entrance paperwork, he even requested that we refrain from intentionally roping him into any sort of romance. Unfortunately for him, it seems the fans did so themselves. Our hands are tied on that front, but you can certainly control what you post online, can you not?”
For once, Dave has nothing intelligent to say. He has no snide remarks or witty quips. When he opens his mouth, nothing comes out.
The formerly cordial atmosphere sours.
Rose seems to feel it, too. Instead of trying to force through a new conversational topic, she whips out her phone and dons her horn-rimmed pink reading glasses.
The food arrives.
Both parties eat in silence.
Dave focuses on the golf match. Admittedly, he has no idea what’s happening. The closed captions are too small to read, and he’s never bothered to spend any time learning how golf works.
Eventually, after a painfully long stretch of nothingness, Rose speaks up, saying, “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make things awkward. I just wanted to give you some advice.”
“Nah, it’s fine. I really appreciate it, actually.” Though the first statement is another lie, the second is true. “And, hey, not to be too sappy or anything, but I always enjoy hanging out with you.”
“Is that so?” The smug grin on Rose’s face indicates that she’s regained her social footing. “Could it be that the oh-so-mighty and stoic Dave Strider has a soft side? Is there a heart in this tin man?” She jabs a playful finger at Dave’s chest.
He swats her away with a snort of laughter. “Aw, fuck off. If you keep it up, I’ll just never say anything too sincere again. The most you’ll ever get out of me will be something like, ‘Woe is me, I’m pretty damned constipated.’”
“There’s a line between sincerity and too much information, Dave,” Rose tuts and wags her finger. When the check arrives, she reaches to pick it up.
But Dave is faster. He snags the black pleather booklet and jams his debit card into the appropriate pocket. “I believe it’s my turn to pay.”
And so the song and dance begins.
“Is it?” Rose shakes her head slowly as she continues, “No, no, dearest cousin. I believe it is my turn to pay.” She makes a grand show of removing her own debit card from her pocket and holding it out to Dave. Its reflective plastic surface is emblazoned with a photo of her cat, Mister Muffins. “As you can see, I have even procured a new payment option specifically for today’s lunch, for I do believe it is my turn to pay.” She reaches for the check.
Dave slides it closer to his chest. “Nope. My turn, Rosey. Kanaya paid for our birthday lunch. That’s what probably threw you off.”
Though Rose responds by folding her arms across her chest, it’s all an act. Quibbling over who is paying for lunch is a time-honored tradition for the Strider-Lalonde bunch. It’s an integral part of the experience. To simply pay without so much as a huff of displeasure is as much a social faux pas as it is a sign of weakness. And, perhaps more importantly, both parties have always found the display wildly entertaining. It’s an insincere way to reset the mood and end everything on a positive note. Today, as always, is no exception.
Chapter 8: Our Lips Must Always Be Sealed
Chapter Text
Wednesday
5 February 2020
Belfast, Northern Ireland
At first, the international matches were exciting. Having never traveled outside the United States, Dave reveled in his initial years of globetrotting. He indulged in experiences he’d only seen on television and visited what seemed like every major tourist attraction. But every novelty has its limit, and he’s long since reached his. While he can’t exactly say he properly hates non-domestic engagements, his taste for them has waned. The dazzling spectacles of the world can only hold one’s attention for so long; now, they’re dull highlights being drowned in a sea of jet lag.
After almost a decade of touring with Worldwide Action Promotion, he’s started to see the “tells” of a newcomer. There’s a mixture of wide-eyed wonder and gobsmacked amazement following their every step. They tend to arrive just in time for meetings, as they’re otherwise busy cramming in as many stereotypical tourist activities as they can. Depending on his daily mood, the scene ranges from endearing to downright enraging — today, it’s the latter.
The show begins in about five hours. It’s currently 1:58 pm, a mere two minutes until everyone is due backstage, and Karkat is the last to stumble into the cramped makeshift lounge.
Vigo, the brand’s eccentric and unpredictable owner, wastes no time handing out the so-called “Nightly Revue.” Each hefty packet contains a wrestler’s schedule, predetermined match outcomes, and pre-show interview notes. If any talent has been particularly troublesome, they’ll also receive a bundle of lilac-hued feedback pages.
So far, Dave’s singular saving grace is the absence of such notices.
Once everything is handed out, the crowd is ushered into the spacious cafeteria. Cheap, shredding area rugs have been haphazardly spread across a concrete floor. Mismatched bargain bin folding tables — the sort of shoddy laminate monstrosities Dave remembers seeing in high school — fill the otherwise empty room. Judging by the menu on the back of the packet, tonight’s catering company is offering an “authentic British spread.” The flowery language covers for a lineup of mediocre meatloaf, mashed potatoes, assorted greens, and overcooked chicken wings. It’s a rough step and a half above the average American buffet’s meals, but he can’t afford to be picky. This is his dinner. Whatever he snags now will have to supplement the handfuls of cheap, TSA-friendly protein bars he brought with him.
So, he piles as much as he can onto his plate. He takes the full recommended three-slice serving of meatloaf, four hefty ladles of roasted vegetables, and a sizable slice of carrot cake.
Having ended up at the back of the line, he’s forced to scrounge for a vacant seat. He pointedly refuses an offer from Eridan and decides against eating with some of the camera crew. (Apparently, Kenzie is still pissed at him for accidentally dropping the real microphone instead of the prop mic two weeks ago.) After circling the entire setup a few times, he ends up occupying the empty space beside Karkat.
While Dave is busy shoveling food into his face, Karkat is studying a veritable encyclopedia of lilac pages stapled to the end of his hand-out. His brows knit together as he flips through each page, his expression falling as he digs deeper.
Normally, Dave would ignore such a display. The dreaded first feedback cycle is a rite of passage. Years ago, when he was a fresh face, Dave had received a seventy-four-page bundle of criticisms. He’d been critiqued on everything, and he incorporated barely half of it into his wildly successful act.
Every Worldwide Action Promotion wrestler gets that gut-punch, and everyone survives (more or less) intact.
But there’s something palpably different about Karkat’s nervous energy. He’s a tightened spring about to let loose. Streaks of raw flesh rake across his lower lip; his fingers seem to somehow tangle themselves ever deeper into his hair with every passing second. There’s too much anxiety bleeding from his body, and it finally compels Dave to act.
He opens casually. Karkat’s disdain for him is no secret, and he doesn’t want to worsen the situation. “Y’know,” he says, and his voice is as calm and cool as he can physically manage, “most of what that says is gonna be pure bullshit. Don’t mind it too much.”
Karkat’s head snaps up and towards Dave. “You’re the brand’s commercial darling, Strider. Of course the advice doesn’t matter to you. At this point, you could admit to being D. B. fucking Cooper, and nobody in corporate would bat a damned eye.”
“I promise, dude, everyone gets that shit. We literally call it the ‘Vigo feedback loop’ because of how goddamned insane it is.” Dave shovels another forkful of depressingly bad meatloaf into his mouth. (It’s as flavorless as it is unpleasantly chalky. Were it not for the fact that this will be the most he’ll eat all night, he would’ve thrown the entire meal out after the first bite.) “Hell, I got a dictionary of things I needed to change when I first got here. Vigo didn’t like my character much. Thought it was a real piece of shit idea. But it’s obviously worked out fine, so I don’t see much of an issue. Just pick some of the important-looking shit out of that packet and mix that into your act.”
“It’s all fucking important, isn’t it?” Karkat’s frown deepens.
“Nah,” Dave waves his hand dismissively, unaware that the action sends flecks of shitty meatloaf flying through the air. “Most of it’s pure bullshit. Don’t worry ‘bout it much.” To sell his point, he offers a reassuring smile.
The gesture is not reciprocated.
Instead, Karkat shakes his head and starts picking at his modestly stocked plate. “Is there anything else to eat here? This slop is about as palatable as cardboard, and that’s a tragic insult to cardboard.”
“Sorry, buckaroo, that’s all we’re getting. They do one big meal, and it’s up to you to bring your snacks.” Dave sets his fork aside. He unzips his backpack and pulls out a handful of chocolate-flavored protein bars. “Look, you’re new. You probably didn’t know that’s how the bigger events worked. They’re real strict with these international gigs, too. My bag’s full of these, so take a few. You’ll need ‘em.”
There’s a moment of hesitancy. Then, with a reluctant sigh, Karkat snags the snacks. He shoves them into the front pocket of his oversized hoodie before taking another tentative bite of his roasted vegetables. “You act like you’re my mentor. I don’t need your help, but thanks for the tip.”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re a big boy and don’t need no man. I know how it goes.” Dave shrugs. He eats some more. Against all odds, each bite manages to be more disgusting than the last. “If you don’t want my advice, that’s chiller than a fresh tub of ice cream. But you’ll appreciate those protein bars. The SSE Arena goes way too hard on the lights. All the lighting techs must be popping the biggest boners during setup. Five minutes in that ring’ll be all it takes to start sweating.”
“You can stop with the colorful metaphors,” Karkat grumbles. He stabs his fork into a particularly burnt bit of meatloaf and studies it closely. He takes a tentative sniff before deciding against putting it into his mouth. “Do all of the major venues have such detestable meals?”
Dave shrugs. “Gonna be honest with you, Karkat, this is a new low. It ain’t usually this bad.”
Karkat nods slowly.
And Dave — knowing that he’ll regret the choice later — refuses to eat another bite. Normally, he can forgive the overworked kitchen staff for a mediocre meal. Tonight is different. This isn’t just bad; it’s downright inedible. Knowing that the company is likely using the same catering company this weekend, he makes a mental note to stock up on snacks for Saturday. He zips up his bag, gathers his things, and offers a vague parting nod to Karkat.
==========
Rose Lalonde
✔
@rose_l_writes
Wrestling is back! It’s the annual #EuroRumble at SSE Arena. 🎉 While I am sure @wap_official has already posted about the matter, I wanted to give a special shout-out to @rage_wrestler. This is his FIRST international wrestling event. 🥳
❤ 84.3K 3:31 PM - February 5, 2020
41.3K people are talking about this
BRUTALIST
✔
@rage_wrestler
replying to @rose_l_writes
HUH? WOW! THANKS! THAT’S ACTUALLY REALLY FUCKING NICE OF YOU. 🥂
The Rassler
✔
@rasslerofficial
replying to @rose_l_writes
yo for real? this is your first big rodeo, buckaroo? 🍾 congrats on making it to the big leagues, yo.
BRUTALIST
✔
@rage_wrestler
replying to @rasslerofficial
SOMEHOW, IT SEEMS LESS SINCERE COMING FROM YOU, STRIDER. I MIGHT EVEN SAY IT SOUNDS MORE LIKE AN INSULT THAN A COMPLIMENT. JUST LET ROSE SAY THE NICE THINGS.
The Rassler
✔
@rasslerofficial
replying to @rage_wrestler
yo #WTF dude. you can’t just break kayfabe like that. #bruh that’s like. not cool.
BRUTALIST
✔
@rage_wrestler
replying to @rasserlofficial
I CAN SAY WHATEVER I WANT, STRIDER. IT’S NOT LIKE YOUR NAME IS PRIVATE. I CAN OPEN #Wikipedia *RIGHT NOW* AND SEE YOUR FULL NAME. JUST TYPE IN “THE RASSLER” AND YOU’LL SEE YOUR ENTIRE MUNDANE BIOGRAPHY, LOVINGLY CURATED BY ABSOLUTE FREAKS ON THE INTERNET. FOR FREE!
sneeble deeble
@cowboy_momop
replying to @rage_wrestler
oh yeah. i always forget rassler’s real name is dave strider. has anyone figured out what brutalist’s name is?
Ringside Reporter
✔
@ring_insider_og
replying to @cowboy_momop
Brutalist’s name is under lock and key. Whenever talent signs up with #WorldwideActionPromotion, they can choose to “seal” their records. That means their name is protected. We know only his first and last initials: K. V.
Lenniford T. Frog
@lenny_frog
replying to @rose_l_writes
BRUTALIST DO BIG WRESTLE IN EUROPE!!!!! 🇪🇺 VERY COOL!!!!! 👓 FROG VERY HAPPY!!!!! 😎 #RIBBIT — Posted from my #LilyPad3 smartphone! 🪷
==========
For once, Karkat gets to face an opponent other than Dave.
He’s going against Vanguard, a mid-tier wrestler with a vaguely Celtic theme. It’s a classic slugfest between two technical bruisers, with Karkat in the losing spot. But that’s not necessarily a bad thing; the main aim is for him to “resurrect” one of the newer roster additions.
As much as he hates to admit it, Dave was right about the lighting; it’s downright oppressive. When the lights finally cut out, he finds himself hoping they never come back on. In the impenetrable darkness, the costuming team arrives to shove him into a black trench coat.
Now, he never willingly signed off on the act. If it were up to him, he would’ve shot the concept down with the precise brutality of a seasoned sniper. Alas, the company maintains total creative control. The “brilliant” idea was relayed via phone call earlier today. His apparent target is Gamzee Makara, an all-around elusive backstage stoner with a penchant for Juggalo culture. The entire setup fingers the fetid edge of stupidity, but that implausibility may just be what makes it work.
Dully, through the usual haze of foamy static and dull ringing in his ears, he hears his cue. Strobe lighting fills the arena. The floor thrums in time with a simulated clap of thunder.
When the warm glow of a spotlight lands on his back, he acts. He follows Dave’s advice and forces himself to lean into his character. He gesticulates wildly before the coffin laid out in the middle of the ring. Then, with all the misplaced confidence he can muster, he raises his hands in the air and steps back. “RISE!” he shouts.
A lanky arm, its tan base nearly invisible beneath countless layers of tattoos, slams the coffin lid open. It’s shortly followed by “The Miracle”, Gamzee’s new persona. An already tall frame is lengthened and accentuated by an artificially aged purple tailcoat and slacks combo. A wild, wicked grin spreads across a face masked by black and white makeup. As instructed, Karkat lets Gamzee take the lead. He rolls out of the ring and slips into the shadows.
Another fight erupts between The Miracle and Vanguard.
Karkat doesn’t stick around to see it. He sprints into the nearest hidden exit and into the backstage corridor.
His heart is pounding, pumping an excess of warm blood to his ears and cheeks. The burning indignation pulses to his fingertips as he stumbles into the bathroom.
“Maybe,” he mutters to himself, “I should pay off my student loans the old-fashioned way. Get a shitty nine to five or work some dead-end retail job.” He peels off his sweat-soaked wristbands and wrings them out in the sink. “Who the fuck comes up with this brain-searing shit, anyhow?”
A stall door swings open.
The last person Karkat wants to see steps out.
“Oh. Shit.” Dave blinks. He says something more — something short — but his lips move too quickly to read.
“I can’t hear you right now, Strider. Either stop muttering or leave me to wallow in peace.”
A dusting of pink spreads across Dave’s cheeks. The newfound coloration highlights a spattering of freckles and old acne scars. He wipes his hand over his mouth before speaking again. “Sorry. Forgot ‘bout that.” He’s slightly louder and infinitely more articulate. “How’d it go?”
“I just made a fool of myself on international television,” Karkat says, straining to keep his voice level, “Is that really all you have to say, dipshit? ‘‘How’d it go?’ It went fucking awfully, thank you.”
Dave, it seems, is unfazed by Karkat’s display of deflated pride. “Well, as you can see, I had to take a piss near the end of your segment. But what I saw before that was pretty fucking solid.” He rolls up the sleeves of his button-up shirt and washes his hands as he continues his oblivious encouragement, “You made that role your bitch. Dominated it like it was a client at the world’s most obscene BDSM club. I mean, shit, did you hear that crowd?” He pauses; his blush grows darker. “Fuck, nah. You probably didn’t. But they were eating that shit up like the world’s choicest dino nugget platter.” The sink automatically cuts off when he walks away to dry his hands. “I promise you, Karkat, you did great.”
“I’d believe it if it were coming from anyone other than you, Strider.”
“Yeowch,” Dave deadpans. His lips are, as usual, drawn into that inscrutable line. He dries his hands with some paper towels. “Look, Karkat, I” — he begins.
Karkat cuts him off. “You don’t get to call me that. My friends call me that. And you are not — and never will be — on that list, got it? Address me as a business colleague.”
“Wow, sheesh!” The edges of Dave’s lips quirk slightly downward. He raises his hands in the air; it’s a facetious gesture with a faint underpinning of genuine anxiety. “Fine. Vantas. Anywho, you did great. You’ll feel like a dingus the first few times you really lean in, but the crowd loves it.”
“Do they?” Despite his outward skepticism, Karkat can’t honestly say he disagrees with Dave’s statement. “You’re saying that I’m being paid to act like a fucking clown on international television?”
“And streaming!” A clueless smile flits across Dave’s face. His next statement is spoken in the practiced tone of long-time commercial spokesman: “Live events and replays of Worldwide Action Promotion’s greatest moments are available to stream on Hulu and Poob.”
A small part of Karkat wants to laugh at the non-sequitur; an even larger part of him lashes out. He acts on the latter urge. “I wouldn’t trust you to comfort a dying cockroach, Strider.”
“I’m a wrestler, dude, not a therapist.” Dave stretches his arms across his chest - right, then left - before straightening the collar of his shirt. “Great chat, though. I’ve got a match to catch. See you ‘round after?”
“I sure fucking hope not,” Karkat says.
Notes:
no beta. we die as we lived: unhinged and wild and free.
Chapter 9: Get Your Boots and Your Coat
Notes:
Chapter title from "WAP". I'm completely serious. Also serious about content warnings for past drug use, allusions to current drug use, and using both of those warnings in a chapter where I finally use that WAP joke I've been sitting on. I regret nothing.
Chapter Text
Friday
7 November 2020
Belfast, Northern Ireland
Warm lights bathe the bar in a golden glow. The air smells of alcohol, baked goods, and various meats. Each meal is served upon pristine white ceramicware; every drink fills a crystal glass. The name of the restaurant has already eluded Dave’s mind, but it’s not his usual style. He’s never been a huge fan of upscale eateries, especially not ones like this — regular pubs dressed up and price gouged to look fancier than they really are. The small plates hold meager portions of food that tastes upscale enough to register as “fancy” while simultaneously costing pennies to make.
The entire venue has been rented out for the usual WAP Euro Rumble pre-show party. Interior dividers have been removed to turn any otherwise cramped space into a somewhat more manageable — but still a bit too crowded — dining hall.
Years ago, Dave adored the brand’s usual fêtes. He’d bump lines of coke off the back of tobacco-stained menus and drink until he couldn’t see straight. Now, as he spins a nickel-plated five-year sobriety chip on a walnut countertop, he just feels bored.
A pink ten-year sobriety chip, this one bearing the Alcoholics Anonymous logo, spins into view. It knocks the nickel-plated chip off the counter and into Dave’s outstretched hand.
He doesn’t need to look up to know the identity of its owner.
He speaks while rolling his medal over the backs of his fingers. “Ain’t you bored, Rosey? These parties are straight-up hell if you ain’t drinking or doing something.” His brows furrow as he focuses on how the overhead lighting bounces off the coin’s scuffed surface.
“Have you at least tried the food?” Rose flips her commemorative chip in the air and catches it in her right hand. “Heads or tails?”
“Tails,” Dave sighs. Normally, he’d be at least mildly amused by his cousin’s antics. Tonight, however, he’s feeling glummer than usual.
Rose slaps the coin onto the back of her left hand. “Nope,” she says, head shaking sadly, “Heads.” When the usual snort of laughter fails to materialize, she raps her knuckles against the bartop. “Have you at least tried the food? It’s not entirely inedible.”
“It tastes like a poor man’s cheap approximation of fine dining.”
When the bartender finally notices Rose, she orders a whiskey and coke. “One big one for the grumpy old bastard over there. On the rocks, please.”
The bartender obeys. Soon thereafter, the rumbling hum of a blender underpins the conversation.
“Sheesh. A bit classist, but that’s a fair assessment.” Rose’s lavender-hued lips press together, forming a line of concern. “I know we both hate these parties, but you’re not usually this despondent.”
To this unspoken inquiry, Dave can respond with little more than a shrug. “I dunno. Guess I just ain’t feeling it tonight.”
The drink arrives.
Rose is quick to push it towards Dave. There’s a vague spark in her eye, a repressed urge to take another sip, but it subsides as soon as the drink is out of reach. “Aren’t you pushing six years sober at this point, David?”
“Aw, c’mon, don’t you fucking ‘David’ me, Rose,” lazy air quotes emphasize Dave’s point. “ I haven’t been to another meeting lately. I’ll get the new chip eventually. And I’m just not in the partying mood, I guess. I wish they’d let us skip these pointless little get-togethers.”
Rose clears her throat.
Dave chugs his drink before slamming the glass against the counter. “Another,” he demands.
Rose’s brows furrow. She wants to say something about Dave’s drinking, but she mercifully refrains from doing so. Instead, she rises from the barstool. “Then try socializing a little, dear cousin.” As she passes behind Dave, she taps her recently manicured nails against his sobriety chip. “And do take care to keep that little trinket.” With that, she disappears into the crowd.
When his drink arrives, Dave reluctantly follows her lead. He nurses his second whiskey and coke more carefully, taking small sips at strategic intervals.
People pass like puffs of smoke from a smoldering cigarette butt. They exchange superficial greetings — some even stop long enough to have an equally shallow chat. Dave, having spent the past decade of his life learning the social skills he previously lacked, easily mirrors their carefree mannerisms. He discusses missed connecting flights, rainy weather, and strange fan interactions. But he never goes any deeper than a lottery scratch-off ticket.
At some point, he ends up in one of the smaller cubicles near the back. He recognizes a tall man with a sharp-toothed smile as Karkat’s in-ring pseudo-thrall. A table of drugs is spread before Gamzee, and he rules over it like a king. A steady parade of people passes by, all of them stopping long enough snort lines of coke off a greasy plastic tablecloth.
Dave’s nose itches.
He chugs the rest of his drink and leaves it on a nearby table.
He spends a few minutes too long staring at the cornrows of white before palming his chip and walking away.
He elbows his way through an undulating crowd of revelers. Men in starched suits grind against the hired dancers. Women in fine cocktail dresses, drunk and high off whatever they’ve consumed, stagger about like newborns. The music is too loud; the drinks are too expensive for what they are. Finally, mercifully, Dave steps into the parking lot. With shaking hands, he pulls a cigarette and a cheap lighter from his rental suit. (He never brings his own suits on international flights.) He breathes in, allowing the smoke to circle in the back of his throat, and starts to relax. Habit and boredom compel him to take out his phone and open Chittr.
The Rassler
✔
@rasslerofficial
#NGL y’all you’d think someone like the rassler would be jazzed as fuck bout a good party. but i don’t actually like them all that much. 😒 anyone else feel me? they’re fun when you’re 18 and just starting out in the world, but then they get kinda boring. 😞
❤ 26.5K 4:41 PM - February 7, 2020
1.3K people are talking about this
sneeble deeble
@cowboy_momop
replying to @rasslerofficial
that’s pretty understandable, actually. i’ve heard the wap parties go fucking wild. 👍 #IGotU
Lenniford T. Frog
@lenny_frog
replying to @rasslerofficial
FROG ALSO DISLIKE PARTY. 🤝 FROG IS TOO SMALL TO GO TO BIG PARTIES. 🐜 FROG COULD GET STEPPED ON! 🥾 — Posted from my #LilyPad3 smartphone! 🪷
The Mad Magician
✔
@madmagician_wap
replying to @rasslerofficial
Suit yourself. I think these parties are fuckin poppin. What’s not to like about them? 🍸 #PartyHard
Rose Lalonde
✔
@rose_l_writes
replying to @madmagician_wap
Do you consciously try to stick your foot in your mouth, or does it just happen naturally?
WRESTLING MOMO
@wowo_not_momo
replying to @rose_l_writes
LOL sick burn. #GetDunkedOn
momo the jester
@momo_42069
replying to @madmagician_wap
that’s a #yikes from me dawg.
the nasty police
@u_r_problematic
replying to @madmagician_wap
You know what? This guy might be more problematic than all those #RassleList shippers. 🤔
Ringside Reporter
✔
@ring_insider_og
replying to @rasslerofficial
Fascinating! 📝 I’ll have to remember this information for future reports.
The Phantom
✔
@phantom_wap
replying to @rasslerofficial
👉👈 Potentially bad time to be asking this, but does anyone know where a guy can get a ride back to the hotel? I may have had a little too much to drink.
WRESTLING MOMO
@kpop_fan_72596
replying to @rasslerofficial
anyone else think it’s. like. #SuperWeird that the company is called w.a.p. and. like. there’s also a song called wet-ass pussy? and it’s also called #wap? and it was released exactly three months ago? really makes you #think. 💭
Booboo Kazoo
@boo_ba_boo
replying to @kpop_fan_72596
There’s some whores in this house. 🎶 There’s some whores in this house. 🎶 There’s some whores in this house. 🎶
kidney stealer
@i_steal_kidneys
replying to @boo_ba_boo
HOL’ UP!
The Mad Magician
✔
@madmagician_wap
replying to @i_steal_kidneys
I said, “Certified freak, seven days a week, 🕺 wet-ass p-word make that pullout game weak.” 🎶
Booboo Kazoo
@boo_ba_boo
replying to @madmagician_wap
Yeah, nah. You killed it. It’s not funny anymore. It’s just… sad and boring. 😩 #StayInYourLane 🥱
Kanaya Maryam
✔
@kanmaryam
replying to @boo_ba_boo
He Really Did That, Did He Not? He Just Randomly Censored Himself? 🥲 Eridan, Please, Stop Embarrassing Yourself And Log Off.
Ringside Reporter
✔
@ring_insider_og
replying to @madmagician_wap
Dear God. This is the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever seen in my entire life. Decades of wrestling reporting, and all the secondhand embarassment in the world has been distilled into this moment.
momo the jester
@momo_42069
replying to @kpop_fan_72596
🪩 verified bop right here 🪩
[DISCOUNTS]
@not_a_bot
replying to @rasslerofficial
[PLEASE RECONFIGURE YOUR SPAM POSTING BOT’S SETTINGS.]
BRUTALIST
✔
@rage_wrestler
replying to @rasslerofficial
AS LITTLE AS I GENERALLY GIVE A FUCK ABOUT YOU, THIS POST IS MORE THAN MILDLY CONCERNING. CONSIDER TEXTING SOMEONE. I ALSO HAVE A CONSIDERABLE DISTASTE FOR UNWARRANTED PARTIES. SEEING AS THEY’RE MANDATORY, I EXPECT TO SPEND MOST OF IT HIDING OUTSIDE.
BRUTALIST
✔
@rage_wrestler
replying to @rasslerofficial
I SUPPOSE IF YOU NEED TO TALK, I’M AVAILABLE. JUST DON’T EXPECT THIS TO BECOME “THE NORM” IN OUR STRICTLY PROFESSIONAL RELATIONSHIP.
As if on cue, the door opens. The edge catches on Dave’s suit jacket. His room keys, wallet, and backstage pass tumble onto the asphalt. His reading glasses fall, too; the lenses shatter upon impact. He prepares to dig into the inept fool opening the door. He turns on his heel.
And his eyes land on Karkat, who is currently shoved into a gray rental suit one size too small.
The sight deflates Dave’s anger enough to draw him back from the edge. Instead of yelling, he offers little more than a harsh rebuke. “Dude, what the fuck?”
Surprisingly, Karkat responds with a look of flustered concern. “Sorry, Strider. I didn’t realize you were that close to the door. Were those…?” Karkat leans over to pick up some of Dave’s belongings.
“They’re prescription, yeah. I’ve got enough money to cover ‘em, though. It’s just gonna be annoying to read for the rest of the trip.” Dave breathes in more smoke. The warmth tickles his sinuses and fills his lungs. He stoops down long enough to snag his wallet and now-empty glasses frames. When he stands, he finds himself staring at his sobriety chip.
“I guess there’s more to you than I assumed,” Karkat mumbles.
Dave breathes in through gritted teeth.
He’s never advertised his past. Then again, most of the people he works with know about it. He hid his habit as poorly as he hides every other secret in his life.
A new dent in the coin catches the light as Karkat wiggles it in front of Dave’s nose. The shimmer drags him, mentally kicking and screaming, back to reality. He carefully takes the token and stuffs it back into his pocket. “Yeah. We can just forget that happened.”
Karkat’s reply is surprisingly, achingly earnest: “Hey, I get it. My brother’s the most infuriating drunkard on the planet. I may be an asshole, but I’m not enough of one to start drilling into you for kicking a bad habit.” When a cold breeze flings some stray raindrops under the front awning, he steps closer to the wall. “Congrats, by the way. If that thing’s still valid, you’ve done pretty fucking well.”
“It’s one year off,” Dave shrugs. He keeps a calm demeanor, but he refuses to meet Karkat’s gaze. “Haven’t touched it since 2014.” A beat of silence — something no longer than a few seconds — feels painfully slow. He presses his nails against his palms. “We can talk about literally anything else now, okay?”
Karkat nods. He shifts awkwardly in his suit before undoing the buttons and breathing a long sigh. His eyes linger on Dave’s cigarette. “Fuck it. Can I have one?”
“A cig?” Dave smirks. Now, he’s relaxed. At the very least, the ritualistic exchange is a well-choreographed routine. He takes his pack from his breast pocket and peers inside. The tobacco end of a single cigarette stares back. “Heh. Must be your lucky day, jackass. You got my lucky.” He shakes it loose and holds it out.
Karkat snags it with far too much enthusiasm. He produces a cheap lighter from his back pocket. “I’ve been trying to quit,” he explains, “but this party’s the last godsdamned straw. I need something to take the edge off.” When he breathes out, the tendrils of smoke trail from his nostrils; they trace over his lips and dissipate into the night.
“Had anything to drink?” Dave talks to distract himself — to think of anything other than how impossibly soft Karkat’s lips look.
“I’m a bit buzzed, yes.” Muscular fingers pull the cigarette free and flick away the loose ash. “You’re looking like you’re in the same boat, Strider.”
“Two cocktails ain’t that much.”
“Yes, well, let’s keep it that way. I really don’t want to rehash the last time you were drunk off your ass.” Karkat takes another long drag from his cigarette. His thick eyelashes flutter when the wind blows smoke into his eyes. After another moment of thought, his brows furrow. “I owe you an apology. I’ve been an ass, as usual, and you probably don’t deserve it.”
“Probably?” Dave snickers.
“Don’t make me regret this. I’m extending the colloquial olive branch. If you want to help me out again in the future, I wouldn’t be opposed.” Now, he digs through his pockets. He pulls out a crumpled receipt and a pen from the hotel. Leaning against the nearby wall, he scribbles his phone number. “I know you can get my number from the company database, but take this as a formal invitation to pester me. Just try to keep your stupidity to a minimum. I reserve the right to ignore you.”
Dave’s heart skips a beat. He has to force himself to not breathe in, lest he inhale his cigarette. He takes the note carefully and deposits it in his inner pocket. Then, he tries to play cool. “Thanks, dude. I’ll take you up on the offer later.”
Karkat nods. He finishes his cigarette in silence. When he’s done, he offers a stiff wave. He says nothing more as he returns inside.
Quati on Chapter 1 Sat 12 Jul 2025 12:32AM UTC
Comment Actions
godtiermeme on Chapter 1 Sat 12 Jul 2025 01:14AM UTC
Comment Actions
RainingMoondrops on Chapter 2 Sun 13 Jul 2025 02:55AM UTC
Comment Actions
godtiermeme on Chapter 2 Sun 13 Jul 2025 03:10AM UTC
Comment Actions
davestriderdickrider on Chapter 2 Sun 13 Jul 2025 10:37PM UTC
Comment Actions
godtiermeme on Chapter 2 Sun 13 Jul 2025 11:22PM UTC
Comment Actions
redgladiatrix on Chapter 3 Sun 13 Jul 2025 11:28AM UTC
Comment Actions
godtiermeme on Chapter 3 Sun 13 Jul 2025 11:48AM UTC
Comment Actions
Quati on Chapter 3 Sun 13 Jul 2025 07:18PM UTC
Comment Actions
godtiermeme on Chapter 3 Sun 13 Jul 2025 08:11PM UTC
Comment Actions
DaveKatAteMySoul (mrs_sakuma) on Chapter 5 Thu 17 Jul 2025 02:02AM UTC
Comment Actions
godtiermeme on Chapter 5 Thu 17 Jul 2025 02:42AM UTC
Comment Actions
redgladiatrix on Chapter 5 Thu 17 Jul 2025 08:19AM UTC
Comment Actions
godtiermeme on Chapter 5 Thu 17 Jul 2025 11:14AM UTC
Comment Actions
Quati on Chapter 5 Thu 17 Jul 2025 01:11PM UTC
Comment Actions
godtiermeme on Chapter 5 Thu 17 Jul 2025 02:07PM UTC
Comment Actions
redgladiatrix on Chapter 6 Fri 18 Jul 2025 02:24AM UTC
Comment Actions
godtiermeme on Chapter 6 Fri 18 Jul 2025 02:37AM UTC
Last Edited Fri 18 Jul 2025 12:33PM UTC
Comment Actions
redgladiatrix on Chapter 6 Fri 18 Jul 2025 12:53PM UTC
Comment Actions
godtiermeme on Chapter 6 Fri 18 Jul 2025 01:01PM UTC
Comment Actions
redgladiatrix on Chapter 6 Fri 18 Jul 2025 01:07PM UTC
Comment Actions
godtiermeme on Chapter 6 Fri 18 Jul 2025 01:18PM UTC
Comment Actions
Hippofox on Chapter 7 Sun 20 Jul 2025 02:00PM UTC
Comment Actions
godtiermeme on Chapter 7 Sun 20 Jul 2025 02:19PM UTC
Comment Actions
WarmSoup on Chapter 9 Mon 21 Jul 2025 05:33PM UTC
Comment Actions
godtiermeme on Chapter 9 Mon 21 Jul 2025 05:52PM UTC
Comment Actions
MermaidMayonnaise on Chapter 9 Sun 27 Jul 2025 01:54AM UTC
Comment Actions
godtiermeme on Chapter 9 Sun 27 Jul 2025 03:46AM UTC
Comment Actions
MermaidMayonnaise on Chapter 9 Sun 27 Jul 2025 03:52AM UTC
Comment Actions
godtiermeme on Chapter 9 Sun 27 Jul 2025 03:54AM UTC
Comment Actions
MermaidMayonnaise on Chapter 9 Sun 27 Jul 2025 04:14AM UTC
Comment Actions