Chapter 1
Chapter One -
A rusted metal door creaks open, leading to a dimly lit bar. Stools, cigarette butts, and beer bottles scatter about, giving the room a dirty tinge.
A large figure slips into the bar and helps himself to a tattered jacket that'd been misplaced under a table.
"That's where you're hiding..."
He grabs the jacket and shakes it out, crumbs flying every which way, tumbling onto the already trashed floor. This didn't seem to bother him as he gave it a squeeze, happily reunited with the dirty article of clothing. He slips on the jacket with a grin and zips it up, walking towards the door he entered from.
He jiggles the stubborn doorknob and with a 'click' it opens.
"Ughnn."
He stops and listens, hearing what sounded like the soft grunt of another person.
"Hello?" "Is someone in here?"
Quietly shutting the door, he turns around to investigate, making sure to turn the lock in order to trap whoever decided to enter the bar in the first place. Boots squeak the wooden planks beneath them, as if to warn whoever was being approached.
"Let me ask again". "Is someone here?"
Another grunt rises from a booth situated in the corner of the place, as if to lead him to their location. Walking closer, he notices a pair of feet sticking out; one foot wearing a sneaker, the other, just a sock.
He rolls his eyes and reaches for the man, grabbing his legs and pulling him from the booth seat.
"Get up."
The 'bum', now on the floor, lies face first on the ground. He didn't get up, but instead responded as before: with a grunt.
"I said, get up!"
The man grabs the back of the 'bum's' shirt, pulling him to his feet and turning him so they are face to face. In doing so, a moment of realization jolts through his body as he sees the 'bum's' face.
"Weasel?"
The 'bum', now known as 'Weasel' squints his already barely open eyes and focuses them on the man in front of him.
"Wade???"
Weasel, hardly able to stand, falls backwards onto the booth table.
Wade looks at his friend, now on the table,
"Jesus dude, how much have you been drinking?"
"Nuthin' much." Weasel gurgles.
Weasel was always a bad liar, which Wade had become aware of early into their friendship. Also, it was very obvious he'd been drinking, so being a bad liar had little to nothing to do with it.
"Alright." Wade sighs ."Up."
He pulls Weasel into a slumped sitting position, which honestly is the best it was going to get.
"I'mmmm finee..." Weasel spatters, clearly not 'fine'. "Bull, you are clearly drunk." Wade retorts. "Really drunk."
"Finee, you's got me."
Weasel reaches his hands up and out, as if he was about to be cuffed.
"Alright bud, let's get you home; you can't rot away here, if Patch were the one to have caught you, he'd have your ass."
Weasel giggles, falling back, then giggling again.
"Ass." "Hehe."
Wade, unamused, and frankly tired, repeats himself.
"Let's get you home."
"Can't do that I'm afraid."
"What do you mean: 'can't do that'?"
Weasel giggles again. "I don't have a home no mo'."
"You don't have a home anymore???" Wade sighs, rubbing his temples.
"Nuh uh."
"What the FUCK happened to your apartment?"
"I was evicted."
"You were evicted?"
"Uh-huh."
Frustrated and now confused, Wade presses Weasel further in a half-assed attempt to get more answers out of the half conscious dweeb. As suspected, the only answers were a slur of word vomit that hardly made any sense, which soon ended up being followed by actual vomit.
Stumped on what to do and frankly considering abandoning his bud, Wade turned to the last person he could possibly get help from. Me.
(Obviously 'me' is well, me, I, the writer. Gotta love the confusing and sometimes annoying 4th wall breaks.)
"So, are you going to help me?" Wade asks, arms crossed.
("Maybe; if I feel like it.)
"Don't be a jerk or I'll leave him."
("No you won't.")
"How are you so sure? Wade responds. "I can totally leave him, look, I'm walking to the door now."
("Then why aren't you moving?)
"Shit"
("Part of being able to do 4th wall breaks is also being able to accept the fact that you, a character, is controlled by me, the writer.")
"Whatever." "Can you just help me so I can help him?" He points over to a drunken Weasel, passed out in a pile of his own vomit.
(" Ok, fine, but only because I have a soft spot for your bud, but also because I to, am tired.")
"Thank you."
(" Ok, so I'm just gonna say that the best option as of now, is to take him home-")
"Are you dumb?" "The whole issue is he doesn't have a home anymore."
(" You didn't let me finish." "You need to take him home, with you.")
"No."
("You asked for my help and I gave it to you.")
"Yeah, I meant like help finding a hotel or a nice bench for him to sober up on." "Not my home."
("Blah blah blah." "Grow up and help your friend or I'm not gonna continue your story.")
"Fine."
("Thank you." "Now I'm gonna go to bed, my ass is BEAT." "I also really gotta piss...")
"Thanks a lot." Wade says, obviously in a sarcastic manner. "Also, girls don't piss."
("Yeah, and grown men don't bitch." "Pick a struggle and stay in that lane. <3")
Wade rolls his eyes and walks over to tend to his drunken friend. He again props Weasel up, this time with less force; in an attempt to not worsen his bud's nausea. He then wraps his arm around Weasel's, supporting him to his feet.
"Alright bud, let's get you home." Wade grunts.
"I, I already tolds ya, I ain't got a home."
"I know... *sigh*, you can come stay with me." "Now let's get going."
"I don't think my legs work." Weasel responds, soon going limp, now completely relying on Wade's support to stay upright.
"You dick." Wade retorts, now grabbing his friend, hoisting him over his shoulders.
For a grown man, Weasel was thin; his ribs often showing through when shirtless. This, as of now, allowed him a partial advantage because his friend could easily pick him up and carry him out.
Lucky, they didn't have to get far from Hell House, before Wade was able to use his teleportation belt, allowing them both to be taken to the 'Dead Hut' in San Francisco. Once teleported, Wade set Weasel down in the bathroom and closed the door.
"I'll grab you a towel and some spare clothes." "I'm not letting you out of the bathroom till you clean the puke from yer' mug." Wade shouts through the bathroom door.
He walks into his bedroom, which in character, is a messy 'pit'. Grabbing a Hello Kitty beach towel, a worn t-shirt, and a pair of boxers, he tosses them outside the bathroom door. He pauses by the door, waiting to hear the sound of water running so he'd know his friend understood what was asked of him. Few minutes passed and there was nothing, no sound.
Knocking on the door, Wade waits for a grunt of approval before going in. "Do you need help or something?"
"Mhhh."
"Is that a yes?"
Wade creaks the door open, grabbing the pile of stuff he had set outside it. He walks in and sees Weasel, still in the same spot he'd been left in: sprawled out on the floor. Wade, as before, sets him upright, then turns on the faucet. He drops the plug in the drain; warm water fills the tub, illuminating the blueish-green porcelain.
"Alright buddy, I'm just gonna slowly help you up..." Wade helps him up, making sure to support him so he won't topple over like before. "Uhm, ok, are you able to y'know?" he pauses, a bit embarrassed to finish his question. "Undress?"
"I- I think I can do that."
"Good." "Do you need anything else?"
"I, ugh, I'm alright."
"Ok." Wade turns to leave, quietly shutting the door behind him.
Weasel takes off his glasses, setting them on the sink's edge. He slowly pulls off his soiled shirt, then pants, socks, and eventually boxers. Tossing them to the floor, he gets in the bath, warm water soothing his aching body. He sits there, knees to chest, arms wrapped around them. His slender frame slick and messy black hair sticking up in every direction.
It soon hits him, sitting in the bath of his best friend. Tears stream down his face, eyes puffy, nose running. A silent sob.
In the kitchen, adjacent from the bathroom, Wade sits. Waiting. Eventually, after what feels like forever, the bathroom knob jiggles and Weasel stumbles out. Standing there, Wade's borrowed clothes draped over him, glasses off, hair wet.
"Are you feeling better?"
"A bit."
"Wanna go to bed?"
"Yeah."
"Alright." Wade gets up from the dining room chair, and leads Weasel to the bedroom.
Weasel follows behind, trying to remain balanced and upright.
"Is this alright?" "I'll just sleep on the floor, you can have the bed." Wade gestures to a box spring mattress lying atop of stacked wood pallets.
"Your floor is cement."
"I've slept on worse."
"You can sleep in the bed with me."
"If you insist."
As soon as they finish their exchange, Weasel's head is on the pillow and he's fast asleep. Wade scoots into the bed, under the covers. He lays there for a while, focusing on the breathing of the man next to him. Thinking. (Which he rarely did)
It had been odd, he found Weasel at random and suddenly he was helping him up, running his bath, and now, sharing a bed. They had always been close friends, best friends, but this felt different. They had never not been the type of friends to help each other out, but they also never got too involved in each other's personal lives. They were like really close work friends, who would hangout on the side. Yeah that is what they are; well, what they were. Now, Wade figured, it was different.
Before he could complete his thoughts, Weasel started tossing, thrashing. He whimpered; letting out silent cries then proceeding to turn back on his side as if nothing had happened at all.
Concerned, Wade turns to face Weasel's back.
"Are you ok?"
"Mmm?"
"Ok."