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buckleysjareau · 4 years

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when i’m walking in my sleep

anonymous asked:

Hii, i love your writing, just finished your new buddie fic. Loved it! If you have inspiration for a storyline like the following i would be so happy to read: Eddie taking care of Buck after the screw removing surgery.

I deleted the original post due to it not showing up in the tags, so sorry if you didn’t see it, anon! But here it is again :)

trigger warnings for this: use of painkillers even though taken as prescribed, mention of an unspecified nightmare, and to be safe emetophobia as it’s mentioned

Eddie has always had the innate need to care for the ones he loves and the ones who need it. When he was five, he tried his hardest alongside his sisters to save an injured squirrel that ended up at their doorstep. He’d take care of his parents when either one of them was sick as he grew up. The need to help everyone never simmered, only grew when he joined the Army, boiled over when Christopher was born. Firefighting was the perfect job for Eddie, he got to feed his desire to help those in need and find the camaraderie within his team that he’d been missing since his Army days.

Helping people helps him, so he really can’t stop himself from jumping at the opportunity to take Buck home after he gets his screws out when everyone else’s schedules are too busy. He cares about Buck a lot -- maybe too much and not in the way someone cares about their best friend -- so making sure he’s okay and comfortable after a surgery he knows Buck was scared shitless for, it’s not a big deal for Eddie.

He finds that maybe he’s a little in over his head when Buck greets him with a loopy smile. He’s just a tiny bit in love with Evan Buckley, and having dealt with post-surgery Buck before, Eddie is sure his heart might burst with every zany grin and stage-whispered expression of appreciation.

Buck’s surgeon, who Eddie has met more times than one should have, strolls into the dimly lit recovery room with an amused smile. “Good to see you awake.”

Buck snickers. “You say that every time, Doc. Soon you’re going to have to stop acting surprised that I’m invincible.”

Eddie can’t tell if what Buck just said makes sense, a twenty-four hour shift with very little sleep does things to your common sense, but his doctor seems like he’s heard it before.

His doctor shakes his head, albeit fondly, as if it’s something he expects but can’t believe he’s hearing. “How many times am I going to have to warn you that you’re not invincible before you stop ending up in my OR?” Eddie suspects every time. “Hopefully, there won’t be a next surgery for you Mr. Buckley. The screws are out, everything should be smooth sailing after that, unless you decide to test that invincibility theory.”

Eddie can’t hold back the laugh as Buck’s face displays his disbelief. “I may be stupid, doc, but I’m no idiot.”

His doctor turns to face Eddie as he facepalms. “I wish you all the luck and patience in the world taking care of this one.” He jests.

“You know I’m always gonna need it, Doc.” Eddie grins. “There anything I should watch out for or steer clear of with him?”

“You know, the usual; don’t let him walk without his crutches, make sure he eats before he takes his next dose of pain medicine we’re sending home with him, and keep him off the leg as much as possible. Elevate it, ice it if the pain gets too much, spare some time for your own sanity.”

Buck grumbles. “I’m not that bad, right? Tell him, Eds.”

“My mom taught me to always tell the truth.” Eddie teases but relents when the pout Buck gives goes straight to his heart. “Fine. You’re a joy to be around, Evan Buckley.”

“You heard him, Doc! I’m a joy to be around!”

“Never said you weren’t, Buck, just saying your joy is here more than either of us would like.” He smirks. “Alright, alright, I’m sure Eddie wants to get out of here as much as you do so you’re free to go. Everything looks fine post-surgery and as long as you take correct care, it’ll stay fine. You know to call me if there’s an infection or it takes longer to heal than it should, you know the drill. I will see you in six weeks, Buck. Please not a second sooner?”

Buck sends him a sloppy thumbs up and thanks him, says he can’t promise anything but he’ll try his best and Eddie doesn’t want to think about waiting through another one of his surgeries. He’s fine with the aftercare, but waiting to see if Buck came out of each surgery alive is something similar to hell, he’s sure.

When the doctor leaves, Buck looks Eddie’s way. “Eddddieeeeee, my man, a little help?”

Eddie shakes his head and grabs the bag of Buck’s clothes before going to help Buck sit up on the side of the stretcher he was on.

Buck giggles. “My hospital gown is open in the back so don’t look. My ass isn’t really my best feature.”

Well that’s a straight up lie.

“Aw, Eds, thank you. Your butt’s pretty great too.” Buck grins like the compliment means the world to him. The implied compliment that Eddie definitely did not mean to say aloud.

The only thing that keeps him from hiding himself in embarrassment is that Buck is as high as a kite on his painkillers and most likely won’t remember even leaving the hospital.

He prays the blush doesn’t show on his face as he helps Buck into his basketball shorts. He couldn’t tell you why he gets flustered every time he had to help Buck this way. They were adults, it wasn’t anything domestic, really, just… intimate. He’d help whenever and whatever way Buck needed, because if Eddie Diaz was anything, he wasn’t shy. He was never uncomfortable. Just flustered beyond belief.

Buck falls back onto the stretcher dramatically after he’s got his shorts on, taking Eddie down with him. He’s laughing hysterically as he wraps his arms around Eddie’s body in a side hug.

“Hey, Eddie?” He looks up at him. “You’re strong. Can you carry me to your truck?”

Eddie lets out a surprised laugh. “I don’t think so, buddy. I can ask for a wheelchair?”

Buck snorts. “Being wheeled out is just embarrassing, man,”

“And being carried out isn’t?”

He responds with a whine. “You don’t have to be smart all the time, you know? My bones feel like they’ve been replaced by jelly, you won’t even try?”

Eddie fondly rolls his eyes. “You can lean on me, okay? I don’t have to carry you to not let you fall, Buck, I’ve got you.”

“You’ve got me?”

“Yeah, I’ve got you. Now, up you go.”

By the time Buck is settled in Eddie’s living room, foot elevated under a pillow on the coffee table and more blankets than Buck could ever need by his side, they’re both exhausted. Eddie plops down next to Buck on the couch and doesn’t question it when he leans his head on Eddie’s chest.

Eddie raises an eyebrow when Buck moans. “You alright?”

“I don’t wanna throw up.” He whines. “Make it go away.”

“You’re nauseous?” Eddie asks, already standing to get the trashcan from his bathroom for him but is stopped by Buck. “I’ll be right back, just gonna get you the trashcan just in case.”

Eddie has always hated pain medicine. He hates not having any sense of control of what he’s saying if he’s going to remember it the next day, he hates the nausea that comes with, and he hates that every time, without fail, it makes Buck cry.

His lip is quivering as he looks up at Eddie, and it’s just then that Eddie realizes how actually gone he was for Evan Buckley.

“Don’t leave me.” Eddie probably would have teased him if Buck had been whining but he wasn’t. There was real fear in his voice, like Eddie would leave out the bathroom window or something.

“So you’re not nauseous anymore?” He goes with instead, eyebrow raised and arms crossed. He remembers Buck calling it the dad stance, but if it gets Buck to let go of his shirt so he can grab something to stop him from vomiting on his floor, he’ll use it.

Buck shakes his head, stopping abruptly as he pales.

Eddie snorts. “Don’t lie to me ever again.” He reaches for Buck’s face, cupping his jaw in his hand and rubbing his thumb across his cheek. “Let me at least get you a bowl. You’ll be able to see me better in the kitchen.”

Buck finally lets go of the grip on Eddie’s shirt and turns to watch Eddie walk away. Eddie hates himself for the way he subconsciously walks to maybe impress Buck. Thanks to the painkillers, he knows that Buck thinks his ass is nice, he can feel Buck’s eyes watching the back of him, and Eddie prays that Buck is at least the slightest bit interested in him.

What is he thinking? There’s no way Buck could be interested. They’re best friends, that’s all they are, it doesn’t matter how stupidly and pathetically in love Eddie is.

Buck is half asleep by the time Eddie is back with a bowl that shouldn’t be missed.

The second Eddie sits down next to him and hands Buck the bowl, he holds it to his chest and goddamnit why is this so adorable?

“I doubt you’ll make it through the first minutes of it, let alone an episode, but you down to watch Avatar?”

Buck smiles tiredly, eyes refusing to open. “As long as you’re talking about The Last Airbender and not the creepy movie.”

Eddie chuckles. “You think Avatar is creepy?”

“You don’t?” Buck raises an eyebrow, still not opening his eyes, and gives Eddie a look that says he’s shocked no one else feels the same. “I read somewhere there’s a new one coming out in 2021, like, why?”

Eddie snickers. “I can kind of understand your fear of Child’s Play because it’s supposed to be horror, but c’mon, Avatar? I cried, if I remember correctly.”

Buck gasps. “Child’s Play is horror, thank you very much, and terrifying. End of discussion. Put on The Last Airbender so I can stop thinking about that thing.”

“That thing has a name, Buck. Chucky. He’s your friend ‘til the end.” Eddie teases but opens Netflix on his TV, quickly selecting from his Keep Watching list.

Buck doesn’t say anything after that and Eddie assumes he’s asleep, until Buck mumbles something.

“What was that?”

“Would you stop being my friend if you knew I was in love with you?” Eddie hears him loud and clear this time but he’s stunned at what comes from his best friend, disbelief that he even heard him correctly.

“Come again?”

When Eddie doesn’t get a response, he turns and finds that Buck fell asleep right after he gives him a heart attack.

Fantastic. Fan-fucking-tastic. Though he thinks he heard Buck loud and clear, it can’t be right. He dreamed of Buck reciprocating his feelings many times before, but that’s all Eddie could ever believe it was. Dreams. He hadn’t even known Buck was interested in men, let alone interested in him.

Eddie doesn’t know how long he’s in his head for, but when he notices the sweat glistening on Buck’s forehead, none of it matters. He places the back of his hand on Buck’s forehead, fearing a fever due to an infection or flu, but he doesn’t have a fever.

Then Buck jolts and suddenly Eddie knows what’s going on. It’s not the first time he’s seen Buck in the middle of a nightmare, it’s not his first time dealing with nightmares, either, so he knows what to do.

He distances himself from Buck as far as he can and still is able to shake him. He knows from personal experience to never stay close when waking someone from a nightmare, the black eye he’d accidentally given Buck one night being proof.

“Hey, Buck, you gotta wake up, buddy.” He shakes his shoulder lightly. “It’s just a nightmare, you’re not there.”

When Buck doesn’t wake up after a third try, Eddie tries a different tactic and scoots a little closer, grabbing Buck’s shoulder and shaking heavier than before. “Evan, Evan, wake up!”

Buck jolts awake, Bobby’s name on the tip of his tongue, swallowed by a scream. He can’t catch his breath, Eddie can tell he hasn’t fully grasped that wherever he just was in his nightmare was long gone and that he’s safe so he does everything he can to clear that fog.

He takes Buck’s shaking hand in his own and squeezes. “Hey, Evan, you’re at my place, on my couch, nowhere near any danger. You’re safe, okay?”

He can practically see the fog clear from his mind, taking in his surroundings and squeezes Eddie’s hand in his. “Eddie?”

“Yeah, man, I’m here. Feeling calmer?”

Before Buck can respond, he winces and muffles a scream of pain by biting on his lip. Eddie jumps into action as Buck grabs onto the bottom of his cast tightly, as to squeeze out the agony he was feeling.

Eddie checks the time. “You’re due for your next dose of your painkiller at least.”

But Buck isn’t listening to him. He’s too focused on the pain that Eddie can only now vaguely remember after getting the bullet removed from his shoulder. Before long, Eddie realizes Buck is mumbling something in between choked sobs and muffled screams of agony.

“Evan,” He tries to use his name again in hopes it’ll get him to focus on Eddie and not the pain.

Buck’s face is twisted in pain when he finally looks at Eddie and not for the time, he wishes he could take Buck’s pain away.

“I hate Freddie Costas. I hate him so much.” He sobs freely, still holding his bad leg like it’s a matter of life or death. “Fuck, it hurts.”

Eddie stands. “I’m gonna get your pain pills and an ice pack.”

Buck gulps the pill down with no water and Eddie has to stop himself from finding that oddly one of the most attractive things he’s seen Buck do. He also holds back a cringe, never one for taking pills in any way.

As Eddie unwraps the beginnings of Buck’s cast, Buck starts to calm, his tears slow, his body relaxes against Eddie’s side.

“I’m sorry,” He whispers.

“Don’t be. Trust me when I say I get it.” He looks Buck directly in the eyes. “Never feel sorry about feeling things.”

He doesn’t ask if he wants to talk about it. He knows Buck will talk about it if or when he wanted so it ends up being a useless question.

It’s quiet again after that. The only sounds that could be heard around Eddie’s was their breathing and the air conditioner running. Avatar is paused on the TV and Eddie doesn’t make any move to unpause it.

Then Eddie is in his head again.

If he heard right, why would Buck be into him? He wants more than anything for it to be true, but he couldn’t see how it would be true. But he knows he heard what Buck asked, knows he should be thrilled Buck loves him back, but the doubts eat him up. What if he was just asking in general, not personally? What if he thought he was talking to someone else? Maybe he’s exaggerating his gratefulness for taking care of him and he means it platonically?

It’s killing him not knowing.

Eddie clears his throat. “Hey, uh- earlier you asked- before you fell asleep, do you-”

He’s a stuttering mess, hasn’t stumbled over his words this much since he asked Shannon out in their senior year.

Buck cuts in, putting him out of his misery. “If you’re asking if I remember asking you if you’d still stay my friend if you found out I was in love with you, then yes, I do remember and I’m so sorry.”

Sorry for what? I’m sorry I was just loopy, it was just a question, I’m not actually in love with you?

Buck swallows hard. “Do you hate me?”

Eddie’s eyes widened completely at the question. “Why would I hate you?”

“Because I’m in love with you and continued to be your friend without telling you as such?”

His heart is racing a mile a minute because Evan Buckley loved him back and he’d had no idea the entire time. He shakes his head with a smile and unshed tears burning his eyes. “I would be the biggest hypocrite if I hated you for that.”

It looks as though Buck hadn’t heard right as he shook his head, but he hopes he understands.

“Come again?” Eddie can’t help but snort at how similar Buck and him are sometimes. “Why are you crying? Don’t cry!”

“I’m crying because I love you and I just found out it’s reciprocated, okay? Give me a second here.” He lets out a mix between a laugh and a cry. “Holy shit, you love me!”

Eddie’s mind is reeling. The more the shock wears off, the more joy and excitement he starts to feel.

“You love me!” Buck grins and leans forward, stopping to look Eddie in the eye and ask for permission -- which he eagerly grants -- and soon, what Eddie dreamed of since the Grenade Incident is happening. Their lips touch and Eddie Diaz tries not to be a cliche, but it’s a whole show of fireworks, kissing Buck. More than he could have ever imagined.

It’s an hour later, and they’re laying in Eddie’s bed, bodies pressed up against the other. Eddie hasn’t felt so secure in years, can’t even remember a time when things felt right until then. Lying next to Buck, things feel light for the first time since he doesn’t know how long, and the feeling of security is what lulls Eddie to sleep.

Until Buck starts to sniffle and then Eddie is wide awake again.

“You okay, Buck?”

Buck shakes his head rapidly with a pout. “No, I have to pee.”

He tries to keep in his laughter, he really does, but the shock and amusement outweighs his ability not to laugh at things that aren’t funny to other people.

Buck sniffles once more. “Why are you laughing?”

“Because you’re adorable and I love you.” Eddie’s lips quirk into a soft smile. “Now, c’mon, up you go.”

Buck grumbles. “Love you too.”

When he’s done, Eddie turns back to get his crutches and gets the surprise of a lifetime when Buck reaches out to slap his ass.

“Hey!”

“What? I did tell you you had a nice ass.”

“Oh my God.”

#eddie diaz #evan buckley #buddie #soft eddie diaz #911 #buddie fic #my fics

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a-cup-of-kencoco · 5 years

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Another tag game! Oh boy! I was tagged by the beautiful and amazing @thepilkyway yet again (thank you, my dear!) So let’s hop to it!

Nickname: Ken; Eddie; Edds; KenCoco; K-Coco....I think that’s it lol, I can’t think of any others.

Zodiac: Cancer! (insert *mess with crabo, you get stabo* meme)

Height: 5′7″

Time: It is currently 3:57pm!

Favourite Band/Artist: Hmmm...Ghost and Florence + The Machine (I’ve also been listening to A LOT of Billie Eilish lately - the new album is SOLID. )

Last Movie I Saw: The Loved Ones - disturbing, beautiful, and absolutely amazing performances, I highly recommend it!

Last Thing I Googled: “dreams about squishing a spider”

Other Blogs: This is my only blog! At least, so far...not sure if I’ll make another one, plus I have no idea what I’d do with another blog.

Do I Get Asks: Not a lot, unfortunately. But that’s ok! I’m open to having more asks, but I’m also fine with just doing my own thing :3

Why Did I Choose this Username: It all started with my good friend @seerawrrr - I’m not sure when or how it happened, but all the sudden, this gorgeous lady started calling me ‘KenCoco’ and it stuck! K-Coco is the shortened version, but it may be related to this spoof video of this character named Coco and she’s this overly exaggerated stereotype of an addict or something?? I haven’t watched it in a really long time, but I do remember finding her sayings funny - I don’t fully remember if that was the beginning of the nickname or not, but that’s beside the point! So I got the nickname and then I thought that I should incorporate that into my blog name - I started thinking about what to do and then I was like “HOLY SHIT, A CUP OF HOT COCO.” Boom - the birth of my username.

Following: 4411

Followed By: 721 (bots included because I am far too lazy to go through all that)

Average Amount of Sleep: I have sleeping issues, but I take melatonin to help with that - so usually about seven to nine hours. Without melatonin, it’s more like four or three.

Lucky number: Seven!!

What I Am Wearing: It’s currently in the low 70s here in Ohio, so I’m wearing a skirt (dark blue, dusty pink flower, wrap around) and a camisole (forest green).

Dream Job: A novelist! I love to write poetry and short fiction (sometimes memoirs) - I’m currently studying Creative Writing, so maybe something will happen in the future!

Favourite Food: White chocolate and macadamia nut cookies. They are my addiction.

Instruments You Play: I played clarinet for about five years and practiced guitar for about two - it probably won’t sound the best now, but if I fiddled with either for a bit, I could probably get a little tune out.

Eye Colour: Blue-gray

Hair Colour: Dark blonde

Describe Your Aesthetics: A punk from the late 80s-early 90s that is also a librarian and has at least six cats at home (something that someone actually said to me a couple days ago, believe it or not). Crochets/Embroiders in spare time on a rocking chair out on the porch during a thunderstorm, but it’s most likely something morbid or creepy. Flowers and skulls. P E R S E P H O N E. Horror lover that likes all things weird and disturbing, but is also a super sensitive little nerd that can’t handle sudden loud noises and is terrified of horses.

Languages You Speak: Mainly English, but I’m learning German! Granted, it sounds like I’m a small child describing their cat or family and can only talk about myself because that’s the only thing I know, but it’ll get better! I plan on learning more languages as well!

Most Iconic Song: Take the Skinheads Bowling by Camper Van Beethoven. Hands down. It’s a Fucking Bop.

Random Fact: I have an obsession with photographing ever bunny and squirrel I come across. There’s a lot here on campus and almost every day, I see those little critters. There’s a little grass patch by a cafeteria with some HUGE BUNS and they increase by one every day. Last I checked, there were four. They stared right into my soul. Related to this, I once had lunch beside a red-tailed hawk! She was just chilling, eating on a bun, and I managed to walk up and sit with her for a bit. It was magical.

I am going to tag: @copias-cape @oldonemaster @zima-soldats @paisleygreenlees @lonely-pyro @boopdaspook @ancatdubh777 @papafuckingemeritus @sleepknoot @demon4queen

(If you do not wish to do this, that is perfectly fine! Please do not feel obligated to do so! Or, if you would like me to untag you, please just let me know!)

#tag game #tagged #eddie speaks

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skeletonscribbles · 6 years

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At Least It’s Not Sports (Part Four - Senior Year, First Semester)

okay I am SO sorry about this but I thought I posted this yesterday and then I looked and it...wasn’t there? so if you’re getting tagged twice in this, I’m sorry. either tumblr ate this last time, or I’m a big idiot. (well...I’m always a big idiot.)

anyways. I decided to break up senior year, so here’s that sweet part 1 for ya <3

Title: At Least It’s Not Sports (High School Drama Club AU)

Pairings: Reddie, Stanlon, Benverly, Bill x Audra

Rating: they’re 18! it’s explicit now whoops

Summary: “Things will be different this year, mama,” he said softly, looking at his Keds. “Can I go?” Things would be different. Things were already different, but she didn’t know that yet. Hopefully, she wouldn’t have to know that at all.

Warnings: sexual situations, some cliche Reddie tropes (window climbing etc)

Freshman Year / Sophomore Year / Junior Year / Senior Year Pt. 2

Read on Ao3!

(sorry for the Crucible Cast Party joke with myself but it’s relevant to the content I swear) Sonia kept Eddie pretty much confined to his room all summer, which was kind of a blessing, but mostly a curse.

The curse part was pretty straightforward. Eddie finished his summer work at the beginning of the third week, and from then on had absolutely nothing to do but daydream and (God forbid) spend time with his mother. Time with Sonia usually started with the television and ended with the bible, so on most days, Eddie picked the first option. He curled up on his bed with a book or a notepad and lost himself thinking and drawing and dreaming of thick glasses, freckled shoulders, and big hands. It would have been sweet and romantic, except that it was a far, far cry from the real thing.

The blessing part came in the form of the real thing, by way of the drainpipe.

On a hot night in the middle of July, Eddie was laying on his bed, Pride and Prejudice folded open on his stomach (it was his fifth readthrough - Lizzie Bennett was up there with Elle Woods on his list of role models) and Whitney Houston playing on his small alarm clock radio. He was in the middle of one of his favorite daydreams - the one where he and Richie ran away together to New York - when he heard it.

Something was tapping against his window.

Eddie, figuring it was a squirrel or some other annoying form of New England wildlife, tried to pull himself back into the daydream. He focused on the shade of Richie’s eyes and the slow, easy stretch of Richie’s mouth, and was just about back to the fantasy when the tap came again.

Cursing under his breath, he set Jane Austen aside and went out to see what was making noise.

When he drew back the curtains, the sight he was met with made him trip over his own feet and fall backwards onto his pink rug.

Richie Tozier was trying to curl his whole body around the frame of Eddie’s window, hanging on with his fingertips and looking terrified as shit.

Once Eddie wrapped his mind around what was happening, he jumped up to open the already cracked window the rest of the way up.

“You could have let yourself in, dumbass,” Eddie chastised him breathlessly, smiling in spite of himself.

“It didn’t seem polite,” Richie replied, gently uncoiling himself and gingerly hoisting his way into the room. He wasn’t very good at it - it took him a couple of different tries to fit his long, stickbug legs through the window in a way that made sense. Eddie did his best to stifle his laughter, but he wasn’t strong enough to choke it back, so he settled for giggling under his breath.

“To what do I owe the displeasure?” Eddie asked, still smiling as he watched Richie try and regain his bearings on the floor of his room. “And how did you know where I live? You’ve never been over here before.”

“I asked Bill.” Richie didn’t seem embarrassed about that in the slightest. “Anyway. I figured you were lonely up here in your prison, and no one else was confident in their drainpipe shimmying skills, so…voila.”

“Voila,” Eddie echoed, drinking in the details of Richie’s face like a man starved. (It had been almost two months; Eddie supposed he was starved, in a way.) “I…uh. I don’t know what to say.”

“Well, I do,” Richie said, and launched into a spirited soliloquy about Bev’s most recent Target shoplifting excursion like they were at the lunch table at school rather than in the middle of Eddie’s dimly lit bedroom that Richie had, within the last five minutes, effectively broken into. Eddie was having trouble listening…not because the story wasn’t interesting, but rather because he wasn’t quite sure if Richie was real or not. After about five minutes, he held up a hand.

“Richie, why did you come here?”

Richie stopped mid-sentence, obviously thrown off. “Huh?”

Eddie squirmed a little. “This isn’t…we don’t see each other except at school. We don’t hang out in the summer. I don’t understand.”

Richie fidgeted with his glasses, obviously embarrassed. “I told you…I figured–”

“Richie,” Eddie said, not interested in putting up with bullshit, “I know what you said.”

Richie huffed out a breath. “I…thought things were different, this year.”

Eddie’s heart leapt. Different?

“Different how?” he asked, searching Richie’s expressive face for any sign of…well, anything.

Richie was truly a consummate actor. He gave Eddie absolutely nothing. “Just…different.”

“Oh.” Eddie willed himself not to feel disappointed. “Carry on.”

Richie did.

He was right, in a way. It was different, one hundred percent different, but not in a way that either of them had to talk about. In fact, talking about it would have ruined whatever electricity was in the air.

Richie talked to him almost all night, and only left because the birds were beginning to sing. After that, his visits became a weekly ritual, and whatever was crackling between them grew stronger and stronger every time. Nothing ever happened, they just sat and talked and stared and smiled, but there was a promise in it - an understanding that it wasn’t ‘if’ something was ever going to happen, but ‘when’.

Even with that being the case, the summer wound down without Eddie’s relationship with Richie escalating at all…except for the fact that they were finally on good enough terms that Eddie wasn’t dreading seeing Richie in school in September.

This year, Sonia had taken up the mantle of dreading Eddie seeing Richie in school in September.

“What are you to do if you see him in school, Eddie Bear?” She had gone all out for his last first day of school - made him a full breakfast, took one million photos, the whole shebang - and now she was trying to use all of her “kindness” to her advantage.

“Avoid him, ma, I know.” Eddie rolled his eyes, itching to get out the door.

“And if he–”

“I won’t touch him, I won’t talk to him, I’ll make friends with girls.” Eddie rattled off all the things he knew she wanted to hear, biting back a long, tortured sigh.

“Good.” Sonia seemed satisfied. Well, almost satisfied. “I still don’t know if it would be wise to let you rejoin that club…”

“The drama club needs me, ma,” Eddie insisted. “I’m the only one who can run their backstage stuff. It’s important.”

Sonia fixed him with her most intimidating stare. “If things start to go back to the way they were, Edward, I’ll have to make some phone calls to doctors. Do you want me to make phone calls to doctors?”

Eddie felt nauseous. There was no question what kind of doctors she’d send him to - in fact, he was pretty surprised he hadn’t been shipped off there already.

“Things will be different this year, mama,” he said softly, looking at his Keds. “Can I go?”

Things would be different. Things were already different, but she didn’t know that yet. Hopefully, she wouldn’t have to know that at all.

“Yes.” She tapped her cheek, and he quickly stepped forward and kissed it, stomach still churning. “Have a wonderful first day, sweetheart. Senior year!”

“Senior year,” he repeated, numbly pushing his way out the door.

Richie was waiting for him by the side entrance to the school, where all the drama kids snuck in to hang in the band room before classes started. Eddie thought of his mother…and pushed the thought aside, instead choosing to smile as he approached Richie, heart thrumming in his chest.

“All right, Eds?” Richie smiled back, and Eddie noticed with a little jolt that the remnants of the little bug-eyed kid that flirted with him at their first ever drama workshop were still visible in the crinkles around his eyes; the stretch of his lips. So much had changed, so much was different…but it was the same, too. Eddie kind of liked that it was both. Different and the same.

“Don’t call me Eds,” he said warmly. “Are you ready?”

“Senior year?” Richie laughed, loud and full. “Are you kidding? I’ve been waiting for this my whole life.” He slung an arm around Eddie’s shoulders and began to drag him inside. “Let’s go ruuuuule the schooooool.”

Eddie followed. He was ready, too.

—-

The fall was…tense.

For once, it wasn’t Eddie’s fault. He and Richie fell back into old habits, to the point where Eddie wondered sometimes if he’d imagined whatever spark he was feeling over the summer…but it was okay; it was probably better that they were being professional about their working relationship.

(Eddie didn’t want to be professional about their working relationship…but how was he supposed to tell Richie he didn’t want to be professional when he, the stage manager, was meant to be the apex of professionalism?)

“You’ve got to stop calling me about this,” Stan had told him exasperatedly, after Eddie had called him for the forty-sixth time asking about how he’d managed his relationship with Mike.

“I’m dying, Stan,” Eddie whined, curling into himself on his bed.

“Please do that on your own time.” Stan hung up.

Even with that being the case, the drama club tension was still concentrated hard on Bev, Bill, and Audra. Bill and Audra were still together, and while Bev was pretty solidly over Bill, she was still annoyed by the whole thing.

She was also playing opposite Bill in the fall play. Eddie had groaned upon seeing the cast list - it was clearly one of Ms. Starrett’s reconciliation techniques, and it was absolutely doomed to fail. Offstage, Bill and Bev were more separate than ever, and onstage, their animosity was bleeding into their acting. Richie was all but tearing out his hair over having to share the stage with them.

The worst day of it came in early October, when Bill came to the lunch room from a study-hall meeting with Ms. Starrett with capital ‘N’ News.

“She liked my puh-play!” Bill said excitedly, sliding a copy of the piece he’d been working on in creative writing for the last three years across the table. “She wants to do it this winter!”

They all gaped back at him, astonished. “She wants to put on your student play? As like…a school thing?” Eddie asked, not sure if he’d heard him correctly.

Bill nodded. “She does.”

There was another moment of stunned silence at the table, and then Bev broke it by getting up to leave.

“Bev, seriously?” Bill asked incredulously, clearly fed up with her attitude.

“Seriously what, Bill?” Bev whipped around, glaring daggers at him. “When’s the other shoe gonna drop, huh?”

Bill furrowed his brow. “I don’t follow.”

Bev threw up the arm that wasn’t clutching her stuff. “Oh, I don’t know. You cheat on me - no repercussions, you’re still in a relationship, I’m left out to dry. You write a play, we’re doing it, no questions asked. What about us, huh? What about me?” Her voice broke, and she looked away. Ben reached out a hand to her, but she recoiled from it, clinging so hard to her things that her knuckles turned white.

“I’m sorry,” Bill said, soft and open. “I’m really sorry, Bev. I didn’t do any of it right.”

“You didn’t,” Bev agreed hotly.

“We should have broken up months before,” he continued, “but I didn’t know how to tell you that, because I wanted so badly to be your friend.”

“Well now what?” Bev asked, softer now. “We’re not friends.”

“You’re right. We’re not.” Bill looked at her, unwavering, and Eddie found himself impressed by the way that Bill was handling things. In another life, Bill might have served as a good leader for the group…but they were beyond that, now. “I want to try again.”

Bev turned her gaze to Audra, who had kept mercifully quiet though the whole argument. “And what do you think?”

“I think it’s a good idea.” Audra’s eyes remained on her tray of food. “He wants you to be his costume designer, and I think it’s a good idea, Beverly.”

Bev snapped her eyes back up to Bill in surprise. “Is that true?”

Bill nodded. “And I was hoping Ben could do sets and luh-lights, if that’s of interest to him.”

Ben looked at Bev. “I’ll think about it.”

There was a silence as they waited for Bev to speak, and then:

“Me too,” Bev said, almost inaudibly. “I’m….me too.”

Eddie and Richie looked at each other, hopeful and amazed.

They were right to have hope. Things slowly started to improve after that. The anger seeped out of Bill and Bev’s acting, first, and then out of their time at rehearsal, and finally it dissipated altogether. Lunch was suddenly a much more comfortable and inclusive experience. Ben in particular was smiling more than Eddie had ever seen him smile before in his life.

The only downside to the reconciliation was that it meant that Eddie and Richie’s not-relationship was back to being the group’s Big Shitty Feelings Thing. Bev specifically would not shut up about it, and so Eddie was forced to rehash every single Richie encounter to her in horrifying detail. He wasn’t really sure why she wanted to know, but he indulged her anyway (because he felt like he had to…definitely NOT because he enjoyed it at all in any way, shape, or form).

“He keeps leaning up against me at the lunch table.” Eddie and Bev had set up a little arrangement of chairs in a corner backstage for themselves during the weekend of the fall play, and when Bev wasn’t on stage, that space was their new gossip headquarters. “One of these days, I’m just going to fall over and die, I swear to God.”

“I was thinking, actually,” she said, picking at her manicure.

“Dangerous,” Eddie replied, arching an eyebrow.

“Definitely.” She looked over at him and smirked. “What about the cast party?”

Eddie stared back. “What about the cast party?”

“That’s when you should make your move,” she said, like it was the simplest thing in the world.

Was it the simplest thing in the world…?

His responsibilities to the fall play would be over, so he wouldn’t have to worry about professionalism, he’d be surrounded by friends, so he wouldn’t have to worry about comfort, and as for courage…

“Your Aunt is hosting, right? Will there be substances?”

“Wine and beer,” she confirmed.

To his excitement and mild horror, the beginnings of a plan were already starting to form in Eddie’s mind.

“That might not be such a bad idea,” he conceded to Bev as she got up to listen for her cue. “I guess we’ll see.”

—

The plan in its finished form was simply to get absolutely blitzed and find Richie, and within his first hour of being at Bev’s, Eddie was most of the way finished with step one.

“I just really miss you, Stanny,” he slurred into his phone, slipping across the kitchen in his socks. (He’d taken his shoes off by the door like a proper houseguest.) “I wanna…you’re just such a good friend! Such a good friend. Best friend.”

“Is there a way to record phone conversations?” Stan, on the other end, was entirely sober, and apparently bitter about it. “I want to tape this one so I can play it back to you the next time you insist you’re not annoying.”

“Bev wants me to find Richie,” Eddie continued, undeterred, “but I can’t do that r’now.”

“Why?” Stan asked, without any real interest.

“No control,” Eddie said, rolling his eyes because wasn’t it obvious? “Dunno what I’d do. Might be dangerous.”

“What you’d do, huh?” Without warning, hands appeared on either side of Eddie, boxing him in against the counter island. Eddie knew exactly who it was, but he made a show of turning around anyway, all the while pretending that his heart wasn’t trying to escape his chest.

Richie was looking down at him with the most intense expression Eddie had ever seen him wear - and he’d seen Richie do basically the whole spectrum of human emotion onstage.

Boldly, Eddie reached up and balled his fist in the front of Richie’s black show t-shirt. He felt Richie’s breath hitch, and felt powerful. “You wanna find out, Rich?”

“For fuck’s sake, you two,” Eddie had dropped his phone on the counter, so Stan was yelling to get their attention, “stop dragging this out and get to it. I’m leaving.”

The phone went silent, and they were left to stare at each other. The crackling feeling from the summer was back, and it was so fucking thick that it was hard to move…

…but Richie managed to, somehow. He fastened a hand around Eddie’s left wrist and pulled him away from the counter, out of the kitchen, up the stairs…into a bedroom.

Holy shit.

Eddie was too drunk to really feel or understand the gravity of the situation, but he knew that whatever happened was about to be momentous, so as soon as Richie closed the door, he crowded his space, not wanting to miss a single second of whatever was coming next.

“Eds?” Richie whispered, somehow both tentative and desperate, and that was it for Eddie. He surged forward, grabbing the fabric around the collar of Richie’s shirt and sinking his teeth into the skin between Richie’s neck and the slope of his shoulders.

“Fuck,” Richie breathed, burying his hands in the fabric of the back of Eddie’s drama sweatshirt while Eddie worked to kiss down his neck. “Eddie Kaspbrak, holy shit, holy fucking shit.”

He pulled Eddie’s head away and moved to kiss Eddie on the lips, but Eddie dodged out of the way. (He’d seen Pretty Woman. He knew what would happen if he let himself get too emotionally invested in what they were doing. Richie was a notorious horndog, and the more Eddie concentrated on that, the easier this would be.) “What do you want, Rich?”

Richie ran his fingers down and under Eddie’s sweatshirt, digging his fingers into the flesh of Eddie’s back. “So much, sweetheart, but I don’t want to scare you.”

Eddie couldn’t help but smile at that. He took a step backwards and took stock of Richie’s wrecked expression, marveling at how different it was from the cocky, lead-actor front that Richie usually put up, and felt a warm sort of pride blooming in his chest. He’d been the one to shake up the otherwise unflappable Richie Tozier. He had that power.

More than that, he planned to exercise it - starting by slowly sinking to his knees.

Richie looked down at him, beet red, like he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. “Dressing practice?” he joked, but he was too nervous for his words to hold any real humor.

“I want this,” Eddie said, sliding his hands up Richie’s legs slowly - more to steady himself than to be sensual, but Richie seemed affected nevertheless. “I’m not afraid.”

“Gonna dirty talk like you call light cues, huh? Short and sw–” Richie began to say, but Eddie effectively shut him up by going for the button on his pants. “Oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. Eddie, holy fuck, I…you don’t have…hhhnnn…”

Eddie ignored him in favor of unzipping his pants and pulling them down around his thighs. He huffed out a little laugh at Richie’s lucky Aquaman boxers…and earned himself a soft, high whimper from Richie.

He tore his eyes from Richie’s crotch and turned them up to Richie’s face, trying to gauge how he was doing. He was met with an expression that was equal parts lust and panic.

“Are you sure?” he asked, eyes huge in the reflection of his still-terrible glasses. “I didn’t bring you up here to–”

Eddie, drunk and confident, moved his hand up to grope at the very, very prominent outline of Richie’s dick in his boxers. It was bigger than Eddie had registered it being when he’d come in almost-contact with it backstage…or was that just the alcohol distorting things?

Anyway, he had his hand on it, which was fucking awesome and awkward and everything in between. Richie made a noise like a wounded animal and jerked his hips forward.

“Okay?” Eddie asked, head swimming. “I didn’t…I don’t know what I’m doing, really, so if it’s bad–”

“Not bad,” Richie said quickly, reaching down and burying a hand in Eddie’s hair. “Really, really not bad.”

“Good,” Eddie whispered, leaning forward to mouth over Richie’s still-clothed erection. Richie let out a stream of expletives above him, which was encouraging, so Eddie pressed a final little kiss to Richie’s confined dick and moved his hands up to the waistband of Richie’s boxers. “We never got this far backstage.”

“No, but Jesus…you don’t know how many times I’ve looked down and thought…I thought…” Richie tugged at Eddie’s hair a little bit, obviously still nervous.

“Tell me you want me,” Eddie asked, hazily recognizing Richie’s nerves. “Richie.”

“Fuck, Eds, I’m…I’ve never done this either, I don’t mean to…yes, I want you, yes, yes, yes.”

Eddie filed the ‘never done this before’ factoid away as something to bring up with him later, and pulled down Richie’s boxers in one deft tug. Richie’s dick was right there to greet him; in fact, it all but hit him in the face as it sprang free, which made Eddie laugh a little bit. Classic Richie - even his genitals were overenthusiastic.

Richie, for his part, was looking down at Eddie like Eddie had personally handed him a million dollars in cash. Eddie preened at that a little bit, and used it as encouragement to lean forward and take the tip of Richie’s dick in his mouth.

The rest of it was sort of a blur.

He remembered having as much of Richie in his mouth as he could possibly hold - practically choking - and being thankful for years of practice dry-swallowing pills. He remembered the bitter taste of skin, strong and all-consuming. He remembered Richie mumbling what Eddie assumed was nonsense above him and stroking feverishly through his hair.

It was over in less than five minutes. Eddie was too lost in the spin of the world and his mind to register Richie’s attempts to get him to come up off of his dick, so he ended up with a mouthful of jizz. That would have really freaked Sober Eddie out, but Drunk Eddie didn’t care. He found a box of tissues on the nightstand nearby, took one out, and spit.

After he was finished, Richie sat on the bed and gestured for Eddie to join him. He was flushed and sweaty and there was a huge grin on his stupid fucking face and Eddie loved him, loved him, loved him so much that he could practically already feel his heart breaking with the knowledge that this wasn’t permanent.

Against his better judgement, Eddie crossed to the bed and flopped over onto it, painfully aware of his proximity to Richie.

“Hey.” Eddie heard and felt Richie sink down beside him. “Hey. Look at me.”

Eddie picked his head up to look. Richie was peering over at him, practically close enough to kiss.

“That was fucking incredible,” he whispered, and Eddie felt his insides freeze, because wasn’t that usually a lead into ‘but let’s stay friends’ or ‘no homo’ or whatever?

Richie didn’t keep talking, though. Instead, he tried for a kiss again…and Eddie rolled over, chest clenching painfully. He couldn’t handle intimacy with Richie if it was just going to be like this. He could handle what they’d just done, but some things were…too much.

Richie pulled him back over again. “Are you okay? Did I do something wrong?”

Eddie squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. “Everything’s fine.”

“Obviously not, dumbass.” He felt Richie’s hand under his jaw, and shuddered. “Jesus, Eds…are you drunk?”

Eddie opened his eyes at that, peering confusedly back up at Richie. “We’re both drunk.”

Richie looked like he was about to throw up. “No…no, I’m not, I…oh, fucking FUCK, Eddie.”

“Are you mad at me?” Eddie whispered, watching Richie’s hands moving from his lap to his hair and back again and feeling like he was somehow disconnected from what was happening in his own life.

“No, not you, never you.” Richie yanked his pants back up shakily. “Mad at myself, mad for taking advantage of you and getting my hopes up and just…fuck, Eddie.”

He was leaving. Eddie must have done something wrong, because Richie was leaving. Shit, shit, shit.

“I love you,” Eddie called weakly, feeling like it was the last weapon he had at his disposal.

Richie looked back at him from the doorway, face twisted up in hurt and grief. “No, you don’t.”

Eddie was too woozy to protest.

--- :( Tag List: @nymphadora @sun-nugget @reddieaddict @peonyromance @should-i-gay-or-should-i-go @its-stranger-than-you-think @forever-a-lonely-valentine

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couldnt-think-of-a-funny-name · 7 years

Note

release the accidentally selling your souls to a demon story

So my birthday is only two days before Halloween.

The day after I turned 13, I had my birthday party, which just consisted of my two friends sleeping over. It was a pretty average night, we just ate pizza, made some weird videos and watched movies. Everything was fine.

Morning time comes- and we’re all pretty Buzzed. It’s Halloween, I was officially a teenager, we had some cool costumes planned, we were all very hyper and giggly that morning. We didn’t want our party to end yet so with some calls home, the girls were set to hang out at my place for pretty much the rest of the day- but we then realized we didn’t have anything to do. My mom had to go to Target for some reason or another, and told us if we went with her, she’d buy ‘any movie you want’ for us to watch. So we went.

Now, firstly- anyone who’s ever been inside a Target knows it’s Not A Real Place. Secondly, the veil is always thinner on Halloween (facts) so this Target had suddenly become…Super Weird. Like, brighter and hazier than normal, and it’s like 9 in the morning and we’re roaming the empty and seemingly abandoned aisles in our pajamas. It just felt like one wrong step and you’d find yourself in another dimension, really intensely.

We get to the movie aisle and start looking around. Now, at the time, I was the only one of my friends who actually liked horror movies- Raychel loves them now but she was the BIGGEST WIMP when we were kids, and Angie was just Very Quiet And Easy To Startle- but, like, Halloween. Teenager. The girls were surprisingly down for getting a horror movie, which in itself might have been a Warning Sign, but hey, I was stoked about it. We were going through some classic titles but nothing was really jumping out at us- until we see a dvd case, not even on the shelves, it was lying on the floor half shoved under a discarded shirt. The cover was pure white with a clown face laughing out at us. The title card read “Stephen King’s IT”.

None of us had seen it before- but we had heard about it. It was one of those movies that the adults™ always got weird about, like Chuckie the Killer Doll or the Exorcist. Like it was something that actually scared them. So, like, we knew we totally had to get it.

My mom tried to put up a small fight with “you’re only supposed to be getting into PG13 not R” (lmao as if this woman has ever given a flying fuck with restrictions I watched so much age inappropriate stuff starting at like age 4) but she quit pretty quickly. The entire ride home was met with “Okay I never watched the full version but it is a Very Scary Story so you’ve been warned!! Don’t start complaining when you’re scared!!!” stuff like that, you know. So we get home, pop some corn, get some hot chocolate, and jump in front of the tv and turn it on.

So like…firstly, I think we all know by now that the original movie (or miniseries, whatever) isn’t actually That Scary. Secondly, I’m a fucking gem to watch movies with because I make a lot of jokes and laugh at the characters actions. And thirdly, it’s like thirty hours long. So we were all having the time of our damn lives here. Like, there were definitely parts that did scare us (Raychel had trouble with Bev’s bathroom scene. Angie hated the part at the sewers with Ben. Personally, I got freaked out by Eddie’s shower scene and sometimes I still find myself covering the drain with my feet just in case lol. And the blood balloons and the restaurant scene got to us too), but we were still all having a total blast. Watching this movie for the first time is still like a prime happy memory! But, you know, things come to an end. The movie was over, Raychel got picked up and Angie had to head home too (we were meeting up after dinner for trick or treating). I decided to walk Angie home since it wasn’t that far.

The Veil Still Felt Thin.

On the walk we kept talking about the movie, and made a point to not walk close to any sewer grates. Our small PA town bore enough of a resemblance to Derry for Angie’s comfort. But it was a nice day, you know? It was late afternoon, birds were chirping, sun was shinning, leaves were blowing everywhere, cars are honking hello at us, front doors were open and little kids could be heard excitedly yelling about their costumes. It was a day that struck me as very picturesque. We eventually got to the place where she could just shortcut through someone’s backyard, so we said ‘see you later’ and suddenly I found myself all alone.

As quick as a snap, it’s suddenly dead silent.

And I don’t mean “oh, someone closed their door and we can’t hear the kids any more” like seriously. It was unnaturally silent. No talk, no birds, no wind, no cars. The street was deserted. I couldn’t even hear myself breathing. I thought I had gone deaf at first! It was getting darker, only it was like an hour before that was supposed to happen and there weren’t any clouds near the sun. The air felt burning hot and freezing cold at the same time. I felt like a million eyes were watching me, except I was alone on a dark empty street, all the doors closed, all the curtains pulled shut. There wasn’t even so much as a squirrel or bunny running bye. I thought about calling out to Angie to see if she was still in the back yard, to see if she noticed anything, but the bushes weren’t rustling or moving at all. She wasn’t there. I was 100% alone.

I start hearing a quiet, deep, throaty chuckling.

I had been standing still in the same spot from where I watched my friend disappear through the bushes. At the sound, I slowly turned around.

I was standing directly across from a fucking sewer.

It was too dark to see into it, and yes, I was 100% expecting that fucking clown face. But it was too dark. I couldn’t see anything. I still couldn’t hear myself breathing. All I could hear was this terrifying chuckle going on and on. I felt like if I moved something would pounce on me, like I was a rabbit playing statue.

Now, I’ve mentioned on here before that I was That Asshole Kid who kept having weird paranormal experiences, and this was a lot more intense than I was used to. Like, shit, I’d had panic attacks over way less than this. I literally thought I was about to die.

And then…something in me kind of snapped.

I don’t know what, exactly- if I was just tired of always being scared by this crap, or if it was some newfound teenage attitude, or just a primal urge of ‘hey I don’t wanna die’, or if the laughter just ignited something in me, but I just…snapped.

I looked directly into the pitch dark in that sewer, and I said, loudly, over the still ongoing laughter, and more confident than I’ve ever felt in my life, “No. I am absolutely not doing this right now. You don’t actually need to screw with me, you’re doing this for what, fun? Attention? Find it somewhere else. I am not dying right after my thirteenth birthday.” The laughter got louder at that, more obnoxious. It just pissed me off even more. I made myself step off the sidewalk, and got to the middle of the street, still staring into the pitch black sewer and hoped I was making some intimidating eye contact. “What do I need to do for you to leave me the hell alone? You want my soul, or something? You want me to just pledge alliance to you or some bullshit? I will! All Hail This Creep, or whatever you go by! I’ll do what you want if you leave me alone!”

And…the creepy laughter trailed off for a moment at that. Back to full, unnatural silence for a minute or so, before the disembodied voice let out an intrigued sounding, “Hmm.”

Next thing I know, the sky’s back a full, bright light that’s making me blink back stars from the sudden change, the wind’s blowing all over the place, and I jumped out of the middle of the street to narrowly avoid getting hit by a car that hadn’t been there a literal second ago. I still felt a little watched, but not as intensely as before. Everything seemed to be completely back to normal. I went back home (constantly glancing over my shoulder) and went on with the rest of the day. Went on with the rest of my life.

But, uh…sometimes this whole scene just comes back to me, and I can’t help but wonder about it.

#molly's memories #true story #paranormal #ghosts #Stephen kings it #asks #molly mumbles

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jonjordanforrealz · 7 years

Text

The Chronicles of Elfdom

Last December, I documented my struggles with Hermie the Elf - you know, of the “on a shelf” variety, sure, but more accurately, in my head, eating my brain and in my soul, tormenting from here to eternity.

This is my story, shared only in hopes that it may help others.

Tread lightly... Vol 1: Narrowly avoided complete disaster after totally forgetting about the little bastard on Night 1, despite having read the special book/instruction manual/elf commandments at bedtime. Oldest boy Kramers through our bedroom door at 0500, announcing that he'd prefer to use our bathroom over his. As I pondered the logic behind this, thinking, "Boy, he's assertive," something felt amiss and within seconds, I realized my worst December nightmares (since exam time during the old teaching days) were already coming true. As Boy 1 finished his business, I sprung into action, anticipating his yearning to find our annual household guest at this ungodly hour, escorting his proactive little ass back to his bedroom. Always (read: sometimes) a step ahead, I waited in the hallway for the inevitable: an attempted rendezvous to join forces with little brother. After that was easily intercepted, it was time for a little psychological warfare. Warding off both emotional sabotage (Boy 1's, "Daddy, I love you") and an honesty play (Boy 2's, "We we were trying to find Hermie but he's tricky") some redirecting was in order. Authoritative Dad speaks! "It's 5:00 am. No one comes to this house unless everyone is sleeping." With that understanding in mind, aided by the musical distractions of the old Epcot Canadian band and, of course, Kidz Bop 27, I hunted down Public Enemy #1 in his top secret hideaway. Tucked away in a Target bag - dead giveaway, right? Duh. - I shoved him into my pocket and moved on to recover the donuts that he brought with him from the North Pole. Breaking kayfabe here, I'd actually purchased these GMO-laden diabetes bombs myself from Dunkin Donuts on the way home last night, on direct orders from the General, but yes, still totally forgot about this whole charade... Does anyone realize how fucking loud a paper bag is at 5:15 am? Donuts on a paper plate and little orphan Hermie's demanding ass still secured in my Florida State sleepy pants, I knew I had very little time to reach the intended destination and disappear into whatever remained of this night. Cat- or zombie-like in my movements (not quite sure which) down went the plate and into a bouquet of flowers leftover from Thanksgiving landed Osama - or whatever his name is. Somehow, now back behind my bedroom door, I'd survived. There would be no more sleeping for our hero this morning. The sweet taste of victory would be the lone reward. Looking ahead to Night 2, it is possible that we may bribe an acquaintance to drop the bomb on Boy 1, letting him know that this is all a bunch of honkybonk, and thus, instantly creating a valuable ally to continue the ruse for Boy 2. It is now clear that the oldest is the mastermind of what will surely be a constant barrage of this sort of subterfuge for the next 24 days. Vol 2:

There will be no threat of disaster tonight. Since yesterday's torment weighed on my mind all day, it would have been nearly impossible to forget my elfly duties this evening. So, there he sits, the little prick. He's made friends with another rather smug trio that has taken up residence in my home (rent-free, I might add.) Yes, nestled snugly between Alvin and Simon, while Theodore's fat ass looks on, in the morning, the kids will find Hermie, appearing to have read the timeless holiday classic, "Santa Comes to Florida" with his rodent buddies. If you haven't read this piece of literature, it's worth at least a passing glance. But I must warn you that it isn't all that accurate. For one, there is no mention of meth or bath salts, even as Santa flies right over Apopka. And two, there isn't a lot of love for Melbourne, which is pretty shameful since such visionaries as Jim Morrison, Darrell Hammond and that guy I went to high school with who ended up in that reality show boy band are among its native sons. Let's not get too sidetracked here. There is still work to be done. I was informed earlier that one of Boy 2's little friends announced that he received a letter from Santa himself this morning, officially putting him on "The Nice List," while, shame on me, all I did was make sure the kids saw the fuckin' elf and got to eat donuts for breakfast., sacrificing sleep, sanity and something else I forgot about because I'm tired and crazy. I guess lil' man used the power of deductive reasoning and, sans Santa letter, convinced himself he was on "The Naughty List," creating a bit of a challenge at bedtime. Dad here, who may or may not have occupied a spot on the unsavory version of the imaginary fat man's lists a time or two over the years, did his best to convince the young buck that he was not on any such document - that things were going just fine - but I'm not sure he bought it. Thanks to utter exhaustion, a self-inflicted derivative of last night's bullshit adventures, sleep came quickly for the littlest Jordan, allowing me time to think of what I might include in the now necessary piece of prose needed to support my earlier claims of his green light toward Christmas presents galore. Ideally, it'd be straightforward: [Hey, kid(s). If you're worried that you might be on the wrong side of Santa's ledger, maybe you weren't as good as you thought you were all year. You ever hear of the NSA? Ever see any of my text messages? Holy shit! Now that's a list you don't want to worry about being on. Anyway... Keep the faith. The truth is, we like you. And you'd probably have to try to stab one or both of us before we'd make sure you didn't get anything at all for Christmas. Love, Dad PS: On Saturday, I want you to sleep until 10 am. Remember: THE LIST!] But traditions are traditions and in this family, as in so many others, we lie like a muthafucka - especially around the holidays! And so, the propaganda continues. Hermie, it will appear, took a break from reading his Florida Santa book to his pals to write a letter to the Jordan kids, detailing how fantastic they've been and urging them to be good listeners and make good choices at least for a few more weeks. (Pretty suspicious - or "ironic," as Alanis Morrisette might deem it - that the stuffed elf, who I think wears makeup, uses the exact same discipline terminology as Mom and Dad do, ain't it? These kids get any smarter any time soon and they'll bust me for sure. And what then?!?) Depending on what time they wake up in the morning, I may have to stage a sacrifice when it comes to the chipmunk population in this home. If we can send positive messages via letters from imaginary people, we can also send negative messages by offing a fake friend or two. And since they haven't seen "Christmas Vacation" just yet, nor do they know for sure that I don't have a Cousin Eddie, they'll have no idea that he stopped eating chipmunks (yeah, yeah, chipmunks and squirrels are different things, I get it) when he found out they were high in cholesterol. Black and white photos should do. I'll use the old Hitchcock chocolate syrup trick. Tomorrow brings the added challenges of that batshit crazy Chick-Fil-A with all the lights, what the food there does to my insides and selecting the 2016 Jordan Family Christmas tree. There will be booze. Two down, 23 to go. Vol 3:

It's clear that my efforts here are drawing something of a crowd, which is much appreciated but not at all the intent. One trusted advisor has even suggested I attempt to profit financially from this record but the truth is simply this: It has to be done. For the betterment of all mankind, our successes and failures with this Johnny-come-lately holiday irritant must be documented. Tonight, I was reminded of a better day that has passed us by. As we decorated our tree, I took some inventory of the many ornaments we've accumulated over the years. Among them, holiday stalwarts like Frosty the Snowman, Santa Claus and The Grinch make their presence known. We also have the typical representation of some of our sports teams (all of whom suck out loud), life milestones ("2006 New Home" is a real joy, since that was two houses, two kids and one lawsuit ago) and the innocence of homemade trinkets featuring the younger versions of Boy 1 and Boy 2, long before they discovered the art of whining. There is also an ornament that is simply a beer glass (right on!) and the disembodied head of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, which I find terrifying. It wasn't so long ago that my biggest holiday concern was making sure that as few of these characters were damaged during tree-trimming time as possible. (Why do they call it "tree-trimming" anyway? When I go to get my hair trimmed, I'm not looking for Akbar the barber to scatter random trinkets about my rapidly-depleting mane.) But as I longed for the days of yore tonight, there it was, right in my face, as if to say, "Not so fast, asshole! The glory days are over, mother fucker!" Hermie - this sonofoabitchofanelf - is also present as an ornament on our tree. Well, shit in my hat. Just as I discovered this mini version of our mini-monster, both boys began to melt down, merely an hour past their regular bedtime, and I was already on my way to a conniption fit myself, three days into the shit and already running out of placement ideas for Elfrey Dahmer. Coincidental timing, my ass! This guy's in my head. Or he's like the alien thing from Stranger Things. If my lights start flickering, I'm setting him on fire and we'll tell the kids he didn't stop, drop or roll because he wasn't a good listener. But at least I'm not in danger of forgetting at the moment. Tomorrow may prove difficult, what with multiple activities involving alcohol already scheduled - after the children's sporting events, as per societal acceptance. I figure if I can make it through a day like that and still move "it" from Point A to Point B, that's a big win for ol' Daddio. His mind powers working on both me and the young'ins tonight jives with my recognizing the cheery-cheeked, red-and-white clad fuzzy thing to be quite clearly a demon in cahoots with Beelzebub himself. So, I've now paired him up with a dragon statue that we have atop our curio cabinet. (Never thought you'd hear me use the term "curio cabinet," did you, old friends? That's right, I'm cultured. Or I've lost all street cred. Not quite sure which distinction to hang onto here.) What's the connection between Hermalerm and the dragon? Well, heroin of course. That's right, kids, the elf didn't just chase the dragon. He caught the damn thing. Which means as I drift off to sleep tonight, I'll be headed for a righteous dream of Hermie sinking through the floor to the sounds of Lou Reed's "Perfect Day," a la Trainspotting. You'll be alright, elf boy, but this one won't be easy. One bucket for urine, one for feces, and one for vomitus. Preparation is key. You're in a new kind of hell for now, fella. See you on the flip. Vol 4:

The voodoo appears to be working. In the last 24 hours, my better half and I have each been caught making mention of "having a talk with Hermie" about this instance of a slight misstep in behavior or that. It's worth pondering what sort of residual effect this may have on the boys (or any kids, really) long-term. Is life truly one observed event after another, with an eye in the sky passing judgment in turn? And let's not get all religious here. I'm seeing this through an Orwellian lens at the moment. If we do slip up, must we live in fear of being told on? I should get out more... Speaking of, having been out quite a bit yesterday, bailing on my "move the elf" responsibility was a distinct possibility but it did not come to pass. Late at night, headache looming, our favorite holiday hobo was relocated from the dragon's back to a high perch overlooking the entrance to Boy 1's room. It's a creepy spot for sure. Like, if you were to walk out of your bedroom and find a person situated the way Hermie is at the moment, laying on his belly, chin resting on his hands, smiling like a whackjob, cheeks as rosy as ever, you'd definitely call the cops. Or shoot him. Or both. The creative maneuvers are lacking for yours truly this year - although I guess mounting the dragon was pretty cool. That's ok, though. My goal is simply to survive this month with as few mid-sleep panic attacks as possible. Started off 1-for-1 but we have a clean slate since, so I'll call it a win so far. Perhaps tonight, we'll set the elf up with a lady or something - freak Carrie out a little, if nothing else. The boys have been warned - née, reminded - that no one is supposed to be up and moving about until at least 7 am in this house (great rule, hardly ever followed) and they seem pretty beat from a long weekend so there might be hope for a more restful slumber. If not, maybe it's time for the elf to get shelved for a day or two, go visit Santa (or Satan?) or something. That'll get these tired kids back on track. Tired kids are like drunk adults, by the way. But that's a story for a different setting. 21 days to go. Zeus help me. Vol 5:

There has been no shortage of remarkable moments in our adventures with the red devil of late. Boy 1, in an apparent attempt to extort his elf friend, left him a tangerine on Monday, after finding him purportedly reading through one of Mom's cupcake cookbooks. Perhaps he was being proactive, in the event that the elf delivers cupcakes as he did donuts on opening day of this annual charade. A simple, "Hey, man. I gave you a tangerine. Whatchyougot for me?" Or maybe he's overheard dear ol' Dad opine on the corruption of politics, in general. Either way, Boy 2 was not pleased. The littlest Jordan, you see, has developed an affinity for these tangerines and while he is almost always quite willing to share his snacks, such was not the case here, as he relocated Boy 1's offering back to its original box. This incensed the elder sibling and the back-and-forth game from tangerine box to offering table began. I should note that the boys are still suffering from Christmasitis - the plague that renders otherwise lovable little humans into demon beings, drunk on exhaustion, impulsive and exhibiting a bravado unbecoming of their age or social status. Now off to school, Mom stepped in with a solution, staging a scene where the elf appeared to have eaten the tangerine in question, abandoning his cookbook perch in favor of a seated position at a makeshift snack area and leaving scraps behind, along with a note that read, "Thanks for the tangerine! I'll only eat one!" (It is also likely that a smiley face was included but I cannot confirm with any certainty, having destroyed this document, and thus, in the name of accuracy and out of respect for journalism, it is omitted here.) This was, largely, an intelligent counter tactic by my female counterpart and while its intended result - assuaging the pending civil war betwixt brothers with a reasonable compromise - was achieved, ultimately, the strategy lacked the necessary foresight to continue the mind games without needling questions from the youngsters. Of utmost importance: "Wait... You moved him?" Crickets. "No, kid," I thought to myself - but dared not say aloud. "He moved himself, of course!" But, of course, this was not supposed to be a part of the pestilent pixie's skillset! For his meandering about is only supposed to take place at night, according to the owner's manual! Far be it from Mom to not have her next move planned, however, and as I stood stock still, considering a swift exit strategy (were the neighbors home? Could a friend pick me up? Where is my rocketpack?) as if beamed in by the projector of Orson Welles himself, the holiday classic "Home Alone" was suddenly on the living room television and Mom's invite for cuddle time was accepted by both young Jordans. Crisis averted, once more. In the time since, the attitudes of drunken demon children 1 and 2 have worsened. Boy 1 resisted piano practice and was not permitted to walk the neighborhood to look at Christmas lights in turn, then admittedly plotted revenge on yours truly, attempting to stave off bedtime as long as possible by prancing about the house, giggling and speaking in tongues. And Boy 2 ignored my orders to disarm, wielding his light saber freely about the living room as though I wasn't even there. With Mom on a run (and not 100% sure she was coming back) I engaged hand-to-hand, demilitarizing my target and receiving his "Mad Dog" glare for my troubles. In fairness, Boy 2 pulled it together enough to join me on the aforementioned Christmas walk, where he graciously educated me on the difference between frogs and what he calls "toadfrogs," (apparently this has everything to do with their tongues - who knew?) and I shared with him my disdain for projector lights. Nonetheless, the net result of Sunday/Monday called for a sabbatical for the nefarious imp creature, who has, as far as the boys know, "gone to visit Santa for a day or two," according to my - no, his! - note. Improvements are expected in short order but just in case, the vodka supply has been restocked. I now count 19 days, which looks far less daunting than 20. Still, my sleep pattern has been erratic. We'll call that 20% problem drinking, 60% guilt from blatantly lying to one's offspring and 20% New York Jets football. With apologies to my parents and, more importantly, to Mark Twain, I haven't told the truth, out of necessity, thanks to you-know-who, and now I can't remember anything.

Vol 6:

Tensions have subsided. The elf was brought back after the exhibition of acceptable behavior on the part of both boys on Tuesday night. 1 did a fine job at his school Christmas concert, while 2 gave a great effort at soccer practice. (It is also important to note that Dad scored a goal in an impromptu coaches/kids mixed scrimmage. That this feat was accomplished against 6- and 7-year-olds matters not.) More importantly, bedtime was without incident on the evening in question. Why that is ever an issue is still beyond me but never has a more relatable tale been told than that of "Go the Fuck to Sleep," by Samuel L. Jackson a few years back. (Well, maybe it isn't exactly the written work of Jules Winnfield himself but I'd like to think it is, as no one could possibly ever recite it better.) Boy 1 is a fan of the every-excuse-in-the-book technique (from pooping to asking questions to feigning injury to everyone taking turns laying with him, telling stories, needing water, etc.) while Boy 2 is more straightforward with his thoughts on sleep overall. Namely, he says he never sleeps. He just relaxes. While I know this isn't completely true, having witnessed him sleeping myself on thousands of occasions, there is something a little vampiresque about the littlest Jordan, who is almost always the first to arise in the morning, often long before the sun. Today, in fact, I awoke to a noise and thinking it was either intruders (that I would have to exterminate, obviously) or my youngest son dicking around (slightly more likely) I promptly began a seek-and-destroy (or G the F to S) mission. The latter scenario proved to be reality, as there he sat, hiding behind his bathroom door, sitting on the floor with the light on, cuddling with his blanket. I don't know either, people, but hey... We all have hobbies... The return of Hellboy Hermie, fresh from his visit with Santa, Satan or Sam Kinison - can't recall which and perhaps it was all - featured him choking out one of the boys' forgotten bath toys, a gator. In this house, that visual brings more joy than the hair of the dog cure-all on a Jordan Family Christmas morning. (Well, almost.) As we enjoy this new era of peace, recognizing that it may be a brief interlude, I'm appreciative of the pause its given me, for the war against the imaginary (?) black magic of this shitbag of a Christmas toy is rather taxing. 17 days. #tylenol Vol 7:

This tradition begets strange bedfellows. Hermie the Elf, who is destined to be renamed Beelzebub, I assure you, commandeered a ship belonging to Jake and the Neverland Pirates last night, along with John Cena and Sleepy (of Seven Dwarfs fame.) Oh, if this were only real, what an adventure they may have had overnight. Sleepy, groggy to the point of hallucination, no doubt, likely from a mixture of NyQuil, booze and some medicinal herb (since we can do that here now!) wouldn’t have been much help to his shipmates. The elf, in his Luciferian glory, perched atop the crow’s nest, would attempt to serve as captain, I would think, causing immediate conflict with Cena, the jorts-wearing, self-important hero, who nobody above the age of 12 really likes. (I’m told he was actually at a local bar I’ve been to a time or 200 a couple of weeks ago. Think I could take him?) They’d square off at some point to determine the alpha male and I’d have to give that decision to the only being on this ship with supernatural, other-worldly powers. “You can’t see me,” John? Well, that’s fine. Hermie doesn’t need to see you to breathe demon fire into your soul. And they'd land at their final destination knowing that the little red-faced asshole with the pointy hat was absolutely in charge. The destination was our TV stand, by the way, because I didn't feel like thinking anymore - or leaving the ship somewhere it might easily fall, ruining everything for everyone. (Or saving them?) The children seemed to approve of this newly established faction, upon this morning's discovery, and I suppose that’s what it’s all about. Unfortunately, it’s also proven to be all about my own sick mind, full of delusions and unfulfilled desires belonging to my inner child. Back in my day, all we had was the mystique of Santa Claus himself – and thanks to friends, Sean and Tina, that gig was up for me at around eight. (Eight! That’s Boy 1’s age now. Well, balls... Getting old indeed.) I believe the big reveal upset me for a few minutes but already conditioned toward materialism (thanks, America!) I reasoned that, hell, I’d still be getting presents, so I don’t think I really cared whether they came from Mom, Dad, Uncle Charlie (who I’m pretty sure once stole a trampoline before gifting it to me) or an old, fat stranger in a furry red suit who likes to have little children sit in his lap. I was skeptical – maybe my friends lied to me. After all, this was the same brother/sister combo that once had me convinced that the oil I spotted floating atop the drink they’d made for me was perfectly normal for “Swedish chocolate milk.” (Looking back, the accompanying smell of vinegar should have been a dead giveaway. Tasted like shit but I’m sure it built character. Appreciate that, S&T!) But alas, as I gave my dad a goodnight hug on Christmas Eve, 1987, there sat the Nintendo I’d be receiving the next morning, in his closet behind him. When I found it, unwrapped, as was Santa’s style, at the foot of the tree, the bullshit meter exploded but I wouldn’t let it get me down. Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out and Super Mario Brothers (and Duck Hunt, if only so we'd all learn about tagalongs at an early age) awaited! I was smart enough to know that I didn’t want to deal with upsetting my mom so I didn’t let on that I knew that Santa was Keyzer Soze (or Verbal Kint? Sometimes my metaphors don’t work.) I think I hid that from her for at least two years. Point is, I guess I fear these kids of mine finding out we’re all the masterminds behind some pretty serious fabrications. What sort of example does that set? But mostly, it’s about the growing-up-too-fast thing. I mean, fuck. I’m 37, somehow. Oh and the other point is, how did we allow this elf thing to get so popular? We had friggin' Santa already! And wasn’t one lie enough? I’m tired. 16 days.

Vol 8:

Turnabout is fair play. Boy 2 had something of a rough day yesterday, although not in the sense that his behavior was unacceptable. With the added pressure of a snitch like the elf-demon watching over you at all times, I'm sure being a 6-year-old isn't as easy as it could be at this time of year so, when the boy wonder seemed exceptionally emotional, I should have known to chalk it up to just that. After eight straight days of "being on 'Good Citizen'" at school, the littlest Jordan was proud to announce that he had recorded No. 9 in a row. How about that? My own little Cal Ripken-type thing. But after dinner, the tiny tough guy started showing his sensitive side (a trait shared by his father - but don't tell anyone.) Seeking either a goalkeeper for his soccer game, an opponent in marbles or a playmate of any sort, he solicited the services of all of Boy 1, myself and the lady of the house, though we all politely declined, citing a collective desire to relax and/or consume the programming of WWE Network before bedtime. (The latter, of course, forced upon Mrs. Jordan, although I think she enjoys it at least a little, though she would never, ever admit as much.) His emotions played out with faulty reasoning - "No one likes me!" - and harsh accusations - "I don't have a nice family!" and "Nobody is being my friend!" My explanation was simple; that declining an invitation to any particular activity does not automatically disqualify one from being another's friend, since free will is an important quality and, if I asked a friend of mine to eat dog poop with me, their lack of participation would not stand in the way of my assessment of their loyalty toward me. But Boy 2 was not having any of this and in a brief fit of rage, he roared at me, "You better watch your attitude, Mister, or I'm telling Hermie!" Oh, did I laugh! But he did not appreciate that either and retired to his room. Confession time came quickly. As I laid with him to coax him to sleep - the sleep that, remember, he swears he never gets in favor of only "relaxing" - he exclaimed, "I'm a bad boy!" and began crying immediately. At first, he would not tell me why he had come to this conclusion but after some leveling with him in the form of a promise not to get mad, he told me he had lied and that he had not, in fact, achieved a ninth straight day of school-bestowed "good citizenship." Instead, he was stuck on "Ready to Learn," which is quite fine in this house, although anything less will need to be addressed. I blamed the elf. For the boy was convinced that he needed to be stellar each and every day without fail, whereas on most days, outside of this window of watching from on high (and by on high, I mean somewhere high enough so as not to tempt the "illegal" touching) he, like his father, would be just fine in the realm of acceptable mediocrity. Never again will I utter the words, "I'm telling Hermie." At this point, 1) I hate the name. The kids named him, after that failure of an elf from the original Rudolph special, now a dentist, or so we're told. (Probably one of those creepy dentists, I'd say. You know, the kind that gasses his female patients and plays peekaboo and stuff?) 2) The kids know the (completely fabricated) score. I will not add to this charade more than I already have. And I will not go gentle into this good night. The company Christmas party awaits and I've got some tomfoolery in which to partake. Still tired. 15 days.

Vol 9 and 10:

They sell both volumes of Kill Bill together now, as I understand it, so I’m allowed to drop a double dose of Elfdom if I want to. (This will be of no additional length, mind you, but we’ll call it two volumes nonetheless.) The uptick in emotion from Friday still fresh in my mind, the idea this weekend was to restore the spirits of Boy 1 and Boy 2 (and mostly the latter) and the elf, for all his faults, appears to be adept at aiding that, so long as the pressure he brings is tempered. I’d like to think that the littlest Jordan is less concerned, having had some weekend time, about trying to be “Good Citizen” levels of perfect than he was during our last volume. Saturday morning, Elfenstein, which is one of many names I am considering for a possible rebranding, took a ringside seat next to Boy 1’s toy wrestling ring, watching what was staged as a battle royal between all of his favorite toy wrestlers. Adorning the garb of a particular favorite, Samoa Joe, along with the NXT championship belt, he sat, smiling his usual satanic smile, as if to say that he was some sort of champion himself. You are not, sir, by any stretch. Let me make that clear. But, they enjoy your company, again, despite your many shortcomings. The wrestling set-up reminded me, however, that I would enjoy squaring off against you, were you of an acceptable size to do so, and perhaps if I can find someone of a similar appearance in human form, elbows will drop (and he shall fall.) Of course, then, I’d likely be arrested and/or sued but hey, that’s the cost of doing business, I suppose. This scene, like so many others featuring you-know-who, turned out to be less than perfect, largely because I set him up too low to the ground to be completely ignored or out-of-reach, but this turned out to be a positive step for the children, who resisted the temptation to move him themselves and asked for assistance when he flopped over at one point. Boy 1 wanted the championship belt the evil elf had been wearing, you see, and I was happy to strip it from him, since he did not deserve such an accolade by any means. Boy 2, it should be noted, held back his elfly interactions on Saturday. Maybe he was trying to determine just how emotionally invested in this thing he really should be. Saturday evening brought forth the annual company Christmas party and since the lady and I do not often stay out past 11 pm, let alone 2 am, anymore, it is no wonder that the Hermie the Hack almost did not get moved that night. Of course, I had every intention, and though my return home (thanks, Uber!) involved a certain level of whiskey breath as I spoke directly with my mother-in-law about plans for said move, in the fleeting seconds following that conversation, I forgot completely, probably focused on the pillows calling my name just a few feet away. Ever-clutch, Gran chipped in and relocated the impetuous imp, placing his (fake) happy little ass in the middle of a wreath on the door to the laundry room. Last night, as I stared at him, I honestly thought to myself, “You know, elf, you look like a real asshole sitting there smiling at me with your hands folded. I’d like to spear you with one of the skewers I use to make kebobs from time to time. Or drop you into a vat of bleach. Or something... Keep looking at me like that! Go ahead!” He was just lucky that there was no whiskey for a second consecutive evening. Of course, there can be no whiskey on consecutive evenings for yours truly anymore. Such is the penance that comes with age. Well, that and a vile attitude toward all things festive, it seems. Or at least all things purportedly festive that are nothing more than some sort of fabric, a little plastic and stuffed with cotton (or is it demon fiber?) 13 days. Unlucky 13, the elf might say, but we’ll see how lucky he is when I practice punting him later on today...

Vol 11:

The easy way seems like the right move at the moment. From one stocking (with Spider-Man) to another (with Ultron) - specifically recognizing each boy's individual preference for good guys vs. bad guys, we've killed two days and two potentially grief-inducing moments. But hark! There are three more stockings! That could very well be three more days. Lady Jordan would love to see the imp intruder in her stocking, along with, say, vodka? Yeah, she likes vodka. And Superdog would dig it if he were to show up in hers next to, ah yes! Something she always begs me for - leftover pizza! Perfect! As for me, well, this isn't really about me but if I'm to tend to this shithead as much as I do, why not treat myself and set the stage for him to gift me some Johnny Walker Blue? Mmmmm. We're already down to 12 days and if I can pull this off, we're into the single digits with plenty of creativity left in the reserve tank. Note to self: Boy 1 is looking more and more suspicious by the day. He is wise indeed. Perhaps it is time to distract him with fear and confusion. Would he believe the Russians hacked his elementary school, forcing an uptick in homework? That seems to be a popular play these days and it just might work. Operation: Borscht shall commence in the am. And looky, looky! It's now midnight! 11 days, just like that! We can do this. Ohhhhh, yes. We shall overcome.

Vol 12:

Rats once spread the Bubonic Plague. Prince Prospero's hubris allowed the Red Death to infiltrate his castellated abbeys, according to E.A. Poe. And I say these little elves carry their own special pandemic - a yuletide malady that flips the universe onto its head and turns otherwise relatively well-behaved children into distracted, exhausted malcontents, spewing tidings of discomfort and misery on adults the world over. It makes no sense. At a time when conventional wisdom would dictate that they walk the straight and narrow like never before, the little ones have truly gone mad. Under the watchful eye of the hellion in the red hat, I always expect that Boy 1 and Boy 2 would adopt model citizenship - and for small spurts, they do. For instance, Boy 1's cleaning dog poop from the backyard last Sunday was completely out of character and Boy 2's strong run of eight consecutive "good citizen" statuses (already chronicled in a previous volume, as well as his subsequent fall from grace) was quite a feat! (Suddenly, I'm reminded that I did not ask for details on the dog doo cleaning duty - nor can I say for sure if they showered that night... Nonetheless, the past is the past.) But these exceptions have not become the rule. instead... It took 47 utterances of the elder Jordan child's name tonight just to get him to come to the table to do his homework, when normally, it would only take 3-5. And that was just the beginning of the battle. "Math with Mom" may sound like a fun game show of sorts but in reality, it's quite torturous. Eating dinner in short order once that was finally complete, a necessary rush on an evening when baseball practice beckons, drew moans and whines and pouts and eventually, claims of complete disinterest in our national pastime - a sin, certainly, but more importantly, a lie, as proven instantly upon arriving at the field, where free-spirited fun commenced. (I noticed there, too, that it is not just my own children who have figuratively tooted the Christmas cocaine of late. Everyone's offspring is mental at the moment, it appears. We're all in this together, people.) As for Boy 2, well, that run of eight straight school days by which he was judged all chivalrous and what not has been followed by quite the struggle. Warnings and consequences and nastygrams from the teacher are the new trend. (Note to Teacher: I feel ya, girl. I mean, I ain't never did kindergarten and shit but I did teach at muthafuckin' Hillsborough High School for a hot minute. And you trippin' if you think students clownin' in December is only for the jits. Teenage fools be whack AF.) But we have reached the magic number of 10 and with that, I see the light. Alas, I am stupid enough to crank this sonofabitch waaaaaaaaaay past 10 on the Holly-Jolly-Christmas-o-Meter tomorrow night, as we venture to what some might call the happiest place on Earth (whereas I call it, "Whythehellcan'twedrinkhereagainland") for Mickey's Very Merry Christmas Party. We'll see how very merry it is this time, kids. Just keep up the shenanigans and maybe I'll tell you the story of the crazy Christmas kid who got left with the elephants on the Jungle Cruise back in 1984. Look for him, Reggie, I think... Yeah, he's in there, somewhere. Keep looking... Ah, but that's tomorrow night... Tonight, I'll resist the urge to send the elf into the garbage can, no matter how easy to pull off the narrative of "Hey, kids. Yeah, sorry... He must have really wanted that last piece of chocolate," might be. Single digits are afoot!

Vol 13:

As if Christmas madness wasn't already enough to make even the most level-headed parents consider sending their normally well-adjusted children to some sort of juvenile rehab, we went and introduced the idea of this all-powerful elf and sent things into hyperdrive. And then you have idiots like myself, who facilitate the special kind of speedball that is Christmas and Disney World to launch the youngsters into a stratosphere of holiday intoxication that would appeal to Belushi- and Farley-types the world over. I've spent enough time at the House of Mouse in the last seven years or so to know that on any random Tuesday, you can do some serious people-watching but on a designated Friday night in December, at something they jam down your throat as a "Very Merry" Christmas party, young bucks and grandmas alike are off the rails right from the jump. It's marketing, I get it, but shouldn't it be up to me to decide how to describe the levels of joy and/or merriment I get from a party to which I'm invited (and certainly one I've paid for?) I'm not going to throw a pool party in a couple of months, invite a bunch of you people, and call it "Jon's Super Enjoyable and Relaxing Pool Party." I might assist in the temporary adjustments of your dopamine and serotonin levels as best I can but I'll leave it up to you to determine what sort of accolades you bestow upon my event. Anyway, free from the eyes of the elf (theoretically, anyway) the children were a bit wild on the journey to WDW but I've found that any car ride longer than 20 minutes or so has the potential to become the clearest manifestation of their best friends/worst enemies style of relationship at this phase of their lives. One minute, they're sharing books and the next, someone's finger is in someone else's eye. I tried my best to sing Christmas songs to myself (no, really, I do try to get into it here and there) but my soul-soothing would have to come in the form of a bunch of junk food at the park and a ride or two. The kids had free reign to try and off each other in the interim. As evenings go, one could really do far worse, honestly. As I've said a million times, it would be tremendous if adults could wander around the Magic Kingdom with a beer but I get it. It's a kids' park. And I suppose that isn't appropriate EVERYWHERE, after all. Plus, there are fleeting moments on these nights that we just aren't going to get anywhere else - like Boy 2 cuddling with his mom or Boy 1 beaming from the front row of a parade route or both of them, giggling with laughter (and maybe a little hint of fear) as we whirl around on some roller coaster or other. Those are sights and sounds I'm tattooing into my brain for sure. But by the time it's all over, we have reached full-fledged juvenile Christmas drunkenness, where, just like your overserved adult friend, conversations ramble on making very little sense, emotions are high and the expression of as much can go from "I love yous" to crying in an instant. There is slurring, overindulgence on late night snacks and then, ultimately, they just pass out. And while one big difference between your friend, Drunky the Bear, and your overtired, cranky Christmas kid is that you usually don't have to worry about the latter throwing up, another is that you can't just leave them where they fall out. So, in my case, you're forced to scoop and carry the now 70-ish pound, increasingly long 8-year-old for miles into boats and trams and finally to the car. While waiting for said tram, I surveyed my surrounding area and confirmed my suspicions that, yes, out of the 500 or so people I could see in my immediate vicinity, Boy 1 was definitely the biggest human sleeping in another human’s arms at that point. But again... Special moments, I suppose, if I'm being honest. (And honestly, between that and multiple shoulder hoistings throughout the evening, holy shit is my back messed up! Thanks again, lady who rear-ended me a few years back to kickstart that now-lifelong pleasantry.) As for the elf, the vile, heinous, intrusive being that he is, he's joined forces with an Angry Bird and Sven from Frozen, and has taken up residence in the boys' bathroom - which is definitely a little weird and creepy, now that I re-think my most recent placement strategy but hey, can't touch him again until tomorrow now. And besides, weird and creepy suits him just fine. ONE WEEK.

Vol 14:

Creativity has ceased. There are no more ideas. The focus has shifted, solely, to survival. Christmas intoxication has run amok and both children are perpetually drunk in turn. I have not yet found the proper means to detox them, although I believe, once that bag of chocolate-covered pretzels was stolen and consumed, only time was to be my ally. Boy 2 turned emotional once more last night, expressing his desire to "go home." Since he was sitting in his bed as he proclaimed this, a deeper inquiry revealed that he wanted to go back to our old house, which we left roughly 18 months ago, because he missed his friends. Total bullhonk, of course, since he couldn't identify a single "friend" by name, other than the old neighbor's dog, aptly named Jordan, which weakens his argument even further. Boy 1 arose at 6 am today, reportedly uttering some nonsense about starting a band. (I cannot confirm this directly, as I was in the midst of a dream starring myself, Wolf Blitzer and Jennifer Lawrence, all scouring the planet for "the lost relics." But the reporting of my wife person is to be trusted, more often than not.) His level of Yuletide inebriation has manifested itself in a phenomenon known as "Low Eyes Syndrome" and whether you choose to admit it or not, you've all been there. Just look through photos in which you've been tagged by others - specifically anything after midnight, at weddings or taken by your most obnoxious friends. On the positive side, we've reached the 5-day mark and are just two days shy of relocating this clan to the other coast, where the grandparent folks can assist in keeping us all alive. The inherent danger of said grandparent folks inadvertently contributing to Christmas chaos matters not, for there is strength in numbers and reinforcements at this point are sorely needed. The elf is spooning with a San Francisco 49ers Christmas ornament today and I think I will say no more to that end. "Take a look around here, Ellen. We're at the threshold of hell!" - Clark W. Griswold, Jr.

Vol 15:

The day is nigh. The elf has been bagged in preparation for the cross-state trek. Part of me wanted that to happen legit abduction-style - little potato sack thrown over his head, a swat of a tiny baseball bat to the dome... A garrote, probably, would have been overkill but I wouldn't have ruled it out. Anyway, he's MIA - and of course, that means we'll have to lie to the children once more as to why he's disappeared. "I don't know, kids. I walked around the corner and he just wasn't there anymore!" Then, tomorrow morning when he shows up at La Casa de Jordan 1.0, I'll be ogling Boy 1 to see if there is any further hint of suspicion in his eye. Surely, Boy 2 will wake up some time between 3 and 5 am tomorrow as the excitement percolates. (I will not.) There will be no attempts to peer deeply into his eyes, mostly out of fear that they've turned black by now, undoubtedly the evildoing of you-know-who. The good news is that I believe all is reparable, once he is gone for good - or at least until next year. In my experience, Christmasitis usually takes a couple of weeks to fade away and then some semblance of normalcy returns. This year, I'm hoping that comes with a newfound affinity for sleeping in. I was never very good at that as a young kid and didn't master it until college, really - an achievement aided at that time by, well, let's just call them PEDs. But I know it is possible for even an 8-year-old to sleep until 9, 10 or 11, even, because I saw my pal Jeremy do it with my own eyes. Sleeping over at his house was great the night before amidst our usual hijinks but I could only describe the following mornings as, uh, educational, as in I seized the opportunity to read every single book on his bookshelf and watch every movie he owned, killing time until he finally woke up. (What the hell were my parents doing anyway, that they couldn't pick me up early, as I often asked? Actually... Don't answer that.) So, again, the hope is that Boy 1 takes after Uncle Berm and learns to hibernate (at least a little.) There is no hope for the other one to that end. He continues to remind us that he never sleeps and only relaxes. "Sometimes," he says, "I don't mean to but I accidentally go to sleep automatically." Clearly, he isn't to be trusted with this intentionally perplexing narrative of his but I believe he has convinced himself that it is all true. That, in and of itself, surely leads to the unique circadian rhythm he's adopted. He sure is cute, though. I imagine that'll keep earning him a pass, no matter how many times he fires a soccer ball directly into my nether regions. Perhaps only one or two more entries into these chronicles shall be necessary from this point forward. I should say that I'm pleased with the response so far, as it seems most of the free world can relate in one way or another, but the goal from the beginning was simply to document the daily deeds of our ignominious, inanimate, annual invader and their impact on our everyday lives. Plus, if I should meet my demise during his stay, surely this will aid law enforcement officials. As far as that goes, one only needs to buy one vowel to solve this puzzle, and that is the "E" to kick off "E.L.F." You see, although we are still in the pre-Christmas phase of my intensive study, I have learned enough to commit to the conclusion that it is indeed an acronym, standing for Evil Little Fucker, as some of you may have already ascertained. It is but one piece but a vital one indeed. I've got you now, you hellion. It is only a matter of time. Deportation is but three days away!

Vol 16:

He is everywhere and he takes on many forms. The shape-shifting shithead has obviously meandered about my home for weeks but also invaded my tree, in the form of a Christmas ornament, and now, as I've taken up temporary residence at my parents' house, he is present as a children's nightlight in the bathroom, staring, peering, judging as people partake in their most private and personal moments. He truly is a sick sonofabitch. He is also in my brain at this point, as evidenced by the masterful mindfuck he pulled on me on Thursday evening. I am a man of many talents but perhaps my most important task as the husband, father and clearly established second-in-command of our family is to handle all packing duties for out-of-town adventures. At Christmastime, this can get tricky, what with an overabundance of presents to account for, in addition to our regular haul. But, always up to the challenge, I gathered up all of the important items and successfully played the game of Tetris that is fitting all of them into the dadmobile, née Honda Pilot. All of them, you see, except for my own suitcase, left perfectly packed and wide open on my bedroom floor, only to be revealed at the most impactful moment from a psychological perspective, as we crossed the Brevard County line, all according to "Its" diabolical plan. I have no clothes. I have no toiletries. As a broken man at this point, I also have no soul. And now I seek redemption. A Christmas angel has aided my efforts to thwart this hostile takeover and my suitcase has been successfully recovered, here, two days later, so brushing my teeth and replacing the loin cloth I've adopted in the interim is but hours away. But the damage has been done. The little fucker has clearly won a round. His reign of terror ends for the season after tomorrow but does that give me time to recover my soul before he is banished once more? Clearly, his excommunication is more important than my return to human form so if sacrifice is required, I must remain committed to the cause. In the event of Christmas catastrophe, I offer warmest regards and eternal gratitude to all that have followed these chronicles. As I forge forward, know that I am acting not on my own behalf but for all that is good in this world. The final showdown is nearly upon us and with any luck - and the guidance of Lord Zeus, Ra the sun god, sweet baby Jesus, John Cougar, John Deere and John 3:16 - when it's all said and done, I aim to look the elf straight in the eye and tell him what a cheap, lying, no good, rotten, four-flushing, low-life, snake-licking, dirt-eating, inbred, overstuffed, ignorant, blood-sucking, dog-kissing, brainless, dickless, hopeless, heartless, fat-ass, bug-eyed, stiff-legged, spotty-lipped, worm-headed sack of monkey shit he is! Hallelujah! Holy shit! Where's the Tylenol?

Vol 17:

It is all over. Since I am writing this, it needs not be clarified that the side of righteousness prevailed in the end but this was not always a foregone conclusion. The red devil was a formidable foe and I can say with near-certainty that we will do battle at least once more, as Boy 1 and Boy 2 will probably still be buying what he's selling. It cannot go undocumented that Hermie took one last pound of flesh as he exited, to the tune of me waking up in a panic at 5 am to remove him from sight and complete this festive ruse. Just as he had on Day 1 this year, he ruined my slumber and that cheeky little smile stretched ever so slightly. It did feel good, under the cover of darkness, to jam the little prick into my suitcase pocket and zip it up. I hope it's hot in your own personal hell, you heathen. And now, we pick up the pieces. I am in need of repair, inside and out. Tired, tattered, full of torment... But mostly tired. Is there no vacation from Christmas vacation? It's become clear to me that, despite my ultimate victory, this experience will haunt me for years to come. And in ensuing years, likely, it will be worse. So, when is a win actually a loss? Perhaps it is now. Perhaps it is more than just a pound of flesh the evil elf has taken with him. There is, it turns out, slight discomfort in my liver area, you see. That's either from the traditional holiday excess or, if you believe the ancient Navajo legend, that's where the soul is located and clearly, mine is gone. Back to our happy little lives? Sure - I can play that game. It is a beautiful existence. But he has broken me indeed. "And Darkness and Decay and The Red Death held illimitable dominion over all."

#christmas #elfonashelf #hell on earth #edgar allan poe #holidays #family #parenting #shootmeintheface

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