Inkstuck

Your name is John Egbert and Dave is wearing the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen.

You insisted that you both change clothes—him out of his (very) stinky rags and you out of your ratty old sneakers and clothes.

After being overwhelmed by choice (you’d never chosen anything yourself before), you picked a simple green buttoned t-shirt, dark blue jacket, black tracky-dacks and simple sneakers.

Dave however, decided to buy his clothes at the local costume shop.

“Hey Egbert, how do I look?”

He’s wearing a princess dress meant for seven year olds. It is way too small and obviously pinching every part of his body. It’s more like a shirt on him and you can see everything. It’s hideously pink, with some tacky picture of a Disney Princess on the chest.

“Beautiful, just like a blooming flower in a field.” You say sarcastically.

“Awww thanks babe! I’ve always wanted to be that!”

“No problem darling, you always look amazing to me.”

You’re being sarcastic of course, you can tell how uncomfortable he is just by looking at him. He winces at every little movement he makes. He has a major wedgie and it’s showing. Not that you’re looking at his ass, nope. Not at all.

The employee however, doesn’t get your sarcasm.

“Sir you can’t wear that.” She says, flushing and fixing her red-rimmed glasses.

“Why not? Afraid everyone is going to explode off their boner-rockets and shoot off into the sky? Afraid that everyone is going to simultaneously explode into rainbows and glitter?”

“What? No! You can’t wear that because I can see your penis quite clearly! Besides, it’s obviously way too small.” She hisses out the word ‘penis’ as if she’s a Year 3 Student learning anatomy for the first time.

It’s true. You can see his dick quite clearly. You’ve been trying to ignore it, but when the employee mentioned it, you found you couldn’t stop staring. You can’t see it all in its full glory, but you can see a massive bulge in his pants.

“Woah Egbert, I’m a man, not just a piece of meat. Please respect me and my body.” Dave flashes you a smirk as you tear your eyes away from his dick.

“Sorry babe, couldn’t help myself.” You mutter, flicking your eyes around the room in search of something else.

“Well if that’s how you’re treating me, then I’m going to change.” He sniffs haughtily and hobbles back into the change room.

Dave is…slightly different from how you pictured him.

He’s less a total badass and more a major nerd. You think he never really got a chance to grow up, being the brother of a knight and forced to serve under the King from a young age. He always had to be stoic and serious, never getting to have any real fun. Which is probably why he acts like a five year old doped up on sugar most of the time.

He's a major fucking asshole most of the time too. As well as having the worst sense of humour ever. You caught him laughing at an old lady who fell down.

An Old Lady.

But, other times, he’s really sweet. He tries to hide how much he actually feels behind his shades, but you can tell.

You mean, you grew up reading his book after all.

“Hey Egbert! I got a brand new outfit—try not to stare.”

Dave comes out of the changing rooms and—oh sweet Jesus what the fuck is he wearing?

Half of it looks like it should be in a cheesy action movie. Long red cape, black muscle shirt and long fingerless red gloves. A thick brown belt holds up…a bright pink skirt.

It’s kind of like the princess dress from earlier, except less tacky and it actually fits him. Beneath it are long, stripy tights that seem to embrace his legs.

Finally, he’s wearing some kind of hideous Barbie™ gumboots. Fluoro pink with hot pink bows, they seemingly shine underneath the stores lights.

You know how albinism can really hurt its sufferers—sunburn and bad eye-sight just a few of those—but Dave should be fine. His body is completely covered. The cape is hooded and should protect his face as well as his shoulders. The rest covers his body quite snugly, and you can tell by the way he moves he’s comfortable.

It’s perfect.

“It’s hideous.”

“Great! I’m getting it.”

Your name is Dave Strider and this roadside museum of obviously fake attractions is really boring.

The attractions are so fake they’re falling apart. As you pass a horned rabbit, you see the horn fall of onto the grimy wooden floor. The whole thing is set in a small wooden shack that you swear is actually some ones house. No seriously, you’ve seen the tour guide’s grandkids running around the place or some shit.

The tour guide is a grumpy old man with an eye patch, red fez and suit. You’re pretty sure he’s conning everyone in the room, especially when you see him shoving money into his pockets.

This ‘famous’ shack is the first actual stop in your merry-road-trip to New York. It’s located in the middle of a state called Oregon. It smells really badly and if you see one more flock of fucking sheep you will flip your shit you swear. John took a major detour just to see this place and it is not living up to expectations.

But John seems to like it.

He’s gasping along with the other gullible people as the tour guide shows your group the tacky attractions.

Five-legged bears, mysterious disembodied hands floating in metho, multi-headed fish. The list goes on and on as you pass more and more extremities.

As long as John’s happy, you’re happy.

That still doesn’t stop you from complaining though.

“John, I don’t get it, what’s this supposed to be?” You say, pointing to a rather phallic looking totem.

“Well I don’t know Dave, why don’t you read the description?”

“Well I don’t know John, why don’t you?”

“Unless you want millions of tiny little ancient totem-dildos running around this place, I don’t think I should.”

“Well maybe I do want millions of tiny little ancient totem-dildos running around this place, you don’t know my life.”

He shoots you a knowing look and you remember something very important.

“Woah you fucking stalker. Goddamn, been Reading up on my life story. Watching me grow up and live my life. Jeez John, so goddamn creepy.”

He just rolls his eyes and walks off to join the departed tour group. You consider staying behind to snicker some more, but the six pack o’lope is giving you serious evil eye so you hurry to catch up with John.

Once you’ve caught up, you decide to give John an even better tour description than the guide is giving.

As the guide talks, you mutter better descriptions into John’s ear. Soon, to your (professionally hidden) delight, John starts laughing. It starts off as quiet, cute little giggles but soon grows into loud, barely-contained guffaws. He can’t seem to stop and everyone is staring.

You nudge him a little and smirk down at his panting form.

“You right there Johnny boy?”

“Shut the fuck up!” He wheezes out.

“Careful John, there are children present.”

“Yeah, you.”

“Really John? I’m insulted you’d even think that.”

“Dave you’re wearing Barbie™ gumboots. You are not qualified to adult.”

“I’m not qualified to adult? A few seconds ago you couldn’t stop laughing at dick jokes, goddamn you fucking hypocrite.”

“You were the one who made those dick jokes, so I’d shut up if I were you.”

“But you’ll never be as cool as me, so quit dissing my jokes.”

“I’ll quit dissing your jokes when they stop being so terri—oh god Dave everyone is staring at us.” He says, pointing a shaking finger at the group of glaring tourists.

“Whoops. Sorry ‘bout that.” You say calmly, waving apologetically at them.

They turn back to the tour guide with a few glares and mutters shot your way.

You continue to give John brilliantly shitty comedy gold while he continues to act as if it’s not funny.

All too soon, the tour is over and John and yourself are heading back to the car. You’re chatting about how shitty the exhibits are and he’s arguing about how great they are.

You feel so fucking grateful this guy is your best friend.

Your name is John Egbert and this motel really stinks.

The room is dirty and obviously hasn’t been cleaned properly in quite a while. The wallpaper is peeling off the mouldy walls. There’s only one bed—a double—which you’ll have to share with Dave. You’re not complaining about that, more so the mouse you saw run under the bed when you entered the room.

But hey, you’ve slept in worse conditions and this was the only place you can find that will accept you.

Currently, you’re in the rooms bathroom freshening yourself up. You just had a (barely) hot shower and dried yourself off. You’re not freshening yourself up perse, more getting yourself ready for bed.

You’ve got on some really comfy new pyjamas and you’re brushing your teeth. You’re so tired from driving all day. But you have been taking breaks—Dave made sure of that—but it’s still taken a few days to reach Nebraska.

Not that you mind of course, the last few days have been the best, most exhilarating days of your life. You’ve seen some of the best sights with one of the best people in the world. You couldn’t be happier.

“Hey John, come make fun of this shitty movie with me!” Dave’s voice calls out to you from the shitty lounge-bedroom.

“Hold on, I’m coming.” You call back, spitting the remaining toothpaste into the sink.

Fully prepared for bed, you make your way back to the bed, curling under the covers.

Dave is watching some shitty, low budget film on the crappy motel TV. You vaguely recognise Nicole Kidman and Hugh Jackman in the rugged landscape of ‘Australia’. Even you will admit this movie is shit and you have watched every shitty movie you could get your grubby little hands on.

So you make fun of the shitty movie with Dave until the movie ends.

Then, the two of you just talk until you are too tired to continue.

You fall asleep curled into each other for warmth.

Your name is Dave Strider and this is the best fucking museum in the history of ever.

John convinced you that this would be something you’d really enjoy, and he was not wrong.

The Indiana Dildo Museum is probably the best thing you’ve ever seen. It has all kinds of dildos from all kinds of species. Each one more new and more fascinating then the last.

Back at all the other shitty tourist attractions you paid no heed to the tour guide. You spent the entire time whispering dirty jokes in John’s ear. All the other ones were boring. This one isn’t.

You listen in awe as the tour guide explains ancient dildo rituals and other weird, incredible things. John is snickering at how into it you are, but you say it’s purely ironic.

Which it is.

There’s dildos of every possible shade—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, indigo, violet, grey. There’s dildos of every texture—glass, wood, nylon, plastic. There’s dildos of every conceivable shape and size. There’s one for every known species—and more after that.

This place is literally dildo heaven.

You can’t help but get (ironically) excited for the entire thing. They never had anything like this back in Derse. You’ve never had this much fun in your life. It was always rules and regulations you had to follow. Never dildo museums with best friends and road trips across the entire country for shits and gigs.

You notice how John looks at you fondly as you excitedly wave at a purple tentacle dildo. You can’t help but notice how happy he looks.

Even later, the two of you buy some dildo-shaped icy-poles after the tour is over. As the two of you are sitting side-by-side on a park-bench, licking your dildo-pops, you can’t help but think…what if you stayed here? You’re happier, John’s happier, why can’t you stay? When you dispose of Jack, maybe the two of you could go on epic bro adventures together?

But then, as he’s waving his dildo-pop in your face, you catch a glimpse of the Book strapped to his back.

You don’t belong here.

After you find and kill Jack, you have to get him to Read you back in.

You push the dildo-pop aside.

You can't afford to become attached.

Your name is John Egbert and after a week and a half of travelling, you’re finally here.

You can see the skyscrapers of New York loom overhead as you drive past them. You have to restrain yourself from staring up for too long because you’re driving and it’s your job to keep your passengers safe.

 Speaking of your passenger, he’s sleeping soundly underneath a pile of blankets. You don’t want to wake him, so you think you’ll surprise him by waking him up when you get there. He's been a little quiet lately and in a funk. Maybe this will cheer him up?

But there's one problem with that

…You don't know where Rose Lalonde actually lives.

She’s a very secretive woman, and you hardly know anything about her. You know she lives on the outskirts of NYC with her wife, Kanaya Maryam. That’s it.

Your mother withheld as much information as she could from you. You have no idea where to go.

You guess you’ll just have to wait and see what happens.