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Fred didn’t know which location for his imprisonment was worse — being above the counter, or below it.
On top of the counter, he can watch the people around him as they mill about on their little set paths. Yet, to perceive is to be perceived, and for whatever reason, people can’t help but comment on the living blob of paint in the glass display case. Mutt, that insufferable charlatan, never passes up the opportunity to add to his humiliation — parading him around to those who inquire as some sort of novelty to be gawked at.
Underneath the counter, Fred finds himself swallowed up by the darkness. No one can see him, but he can’t see anything at all. Nothing except the person who’d left him there to rot — taking on the indistinct form of knotted up lengths of flesh, twisting over itself so many times that Frederic’s head hurt just thinking about it. With nothing else to do, he observes the subtle rise and fall of Mutt’s breathing. The way his body shifts in place when he moves. An unfathomable amount of hands resting around him. It’s as bizarre as it is unnerving.
Either way, Fred has to deal with the discomfort. All he can do to keep his sanity is retreat into idle fantasy. To imagine tearing into the awful people around him until nothing remains but a gory pulp.
“… You can’t seriously be planning on keeping me here forever.” Frederic said. “This is inhumane!”
The store was closed, leaving prisoner and warden alone in the relative quiet of the night. At this stage of the cataclysm, the nights are mostly peaceful. Only time will tell whether this is the result of the disaster truly winding down, or because they’d simply found themselves within the eye of the storm.
In this new world, everyone is a prisoner. Their cells are just larger than the one Fred had been crammed into.
“I mean… ehehehe… that depends!”
Mutt always comes off as more awkward than usual whenever the two of them exchange words during his off hours, like he’s not sure how to interact with people outside of a professional setting.
Fred narrowed his eye. The shopkeeper didn’t even have the decency to look at him when they spoke, instead preoccupied with the menial task of wiping down counters.
“Depends on what?” He snapped, his words strained. “ Y-you…! I… I haven’t eaten since you locked me in here! You know that violates the Geneva Conventions, right?! War prisoners are treated better than this!”
Mutt paused.
“… You need to eat?”
“Of course I need to eat!” Fred insisted. “What kind of stupid question is that?!”
That’s only half true. Fred can feel hunger, but as far as he can tell, he can’t starve. Mutt doesn’t need to know that.
With a sigh, Mutt finally looked up from his work, his gaze falling on the pile of green sludge that sat bunched up in the corner of his glass cell.
“… You said your name was Fred, right?”
“Frederic.”
Mutt pulled himself forward, climbing over the counter to loosely encircle the display case. Frederic shrunk back a little. Even though the glass promised protection from being crushed, the cursed man’s massive, serpentine-esque form intimidated him.
“Fred…” Mutt leaned on a pair of hands with their fingers laced together, elbows resting on the counter. “… I’ll be honest. While it pains me to admit this… I don’t think you’ll be giving me a return on my investment. I can’t exactly sell something with such a… colourful personality, can I? Ehehe…”
“Oh, so now you’re concerned about ethics?” Fred scoffed.
“Hey, I’ve always been concerned about ethics. Making someone pay to be subjected to you just wouldn’t be right.” Mutt chuckled under his breath. “Ehehe… that would definitely lose me a customer…”
Fred didn’t know what he’d been expecting to hear. His only response was to let out a loud, annoyed groan.
“… I digress…” He tapped a finger against his own cheek, his eyes turned upwards. “I’d like to let you go, but I also like that my face is currently attached to my body. Do you see the dilemma here?”
“… Why don’t you just kill me, then?”
There was a lapse in conversation as Fred’s question hung languidly in the air. The two of them stared at each other, differing expressions written on their features.
After an awkward few moments, Mutt broke the silence by cracking his signature annoying grin — a fit of giggling escaping him as he hunched over.
“Ehehehaha…! O-oh, Jesus Christ, Frehehead!” Shaking his head from side to side, Mutt had to fight actively to stifle himself enough to speak coherently. “Fr-Fred, buddy, pal…”
“WHAT?!”
“Ehheheh… Is that really all you think about? Killing people?”
“It’s a valid question! St-stop laughing at me!” Frederic shouted, his voice pitched up into a whine. “Why don’t you just end this already?! Are you just having too much fun humiliating me?!”
“Heh, you’re a funny guy, Fred.” Mutt uncoiled himself from around the box, retreating back behind the counter.
“Look, unlike some of us…” He raised a knowing eyebrow at the paint blob, an insufferable smirk on his lips. “I’m not using the end of the world as an excuse to solve all my problems with violence. I’m in the business of commerce, not killing people.”
“And you think that makes you better than me.”
Frederic said it like an accusation.
“Hey, if the shoe fits.” Mutt shrugged. “Or… well… some other… more suitable article of clothing…” When he saw Frederic sulk, he added, “Come on, I don’t have legs either. That was friendly fire.”
He continued. “I’m not claiming to be squeaky clean, I’m just saying that I don’t like getting dirty. So that’s why I’d prefer it if I didn’t have to kill you. Plus, well… you’re made of paint.”
Fred narrowed his eye. “… What does that have to do with anything?”
Mutt laughed weirdly. “Ehehe! Your corpse wouldn’t serve much of a purpose. Unnecessary and wasteful — now those are two words I can’t stand.”
The box he was trapped in suddenly felt much smaller. Whatever Mutt was implying with that statement, he didn’t like it.
“… So, what?” Fred averted his gaze. “What are you going to do with me? Make up your damn mind already.”
Mutt hummed a bit. Draped in unnatural shadows independent of the café’s dim lighting, his normally innocuous face could look ominous in the right context.
“… Maybe it’s naïve of me to put any faith in your word, but let’s make a deal. You promise not to attack me or anyone in my place of work, and I’ll let you go. How’s that sound? Fair?”
Fred blinked. It couldn’t be that easy, could it?
“… And, the catch?”
“No catch! Unless you count my conditions as a catch. In that case, I have clearly outlined the catch for you.” He said. “Ehehehe… pretty generous of me, no? You’re getting your freedom for free! Most people would have to pay for that.”
Frederic had no idea how to feel about this. Yes, he desperately wants out of this horrible little shop with this horrible, not-so-little man, but he couldn’t stop his paranoia from running wild. This has to be some sort of trap. And if it’s not…
This Mutt guy must be stupider than he’d thought.
He rolled his eyes. “… Fine. Sure. Whatever. I… eugh, promise.”
“You promise what?”
A singsong voice, unapologetically blatant in its insincerity. Fred can’t stand listening to it.
“… Ugh — I… I promise that I won’t melt your face off. Or enact any of the various other torture methods I have outlined over the past few days. There. Happy?”
Mutt let out that infuriating chuckle. Fred closed his eye and vividly imagined the other man’s head exploding.
“Well, I’d ask to shake on it, but the last time I touched you it took hours to get the paint stains off my hands. So, contactless agreement it is!”
With a flourish, Mutt ducked down behind the counter and began rummaging through his things — multiple pairs of hands searching various disorganized drawers and boxes while he whistled a familiar tune.
“Y’know what, Freddy?” Mutt said, his words punctuated by the rustling of various small objects. “I think I’m gonna miss having you around.”
“If I ever see you again, it’ll be too soon.” Fred responded, his voice low. “And don’t call me that.”
“Ehehe, and that’s why! You’re a riot, Fred. For the past couple of days, this place certainly hasn’t been boring.”
When he raised himself back into view, he held a small key in one of his hands. The key to the display case.
If Fred still had a heart, it would be pounding in his chest.
With a twist and a small click, the top of the glass box slid open.
“And, voilà! You’re free!” Mutt said, not at all worried about the potential consequences of his actions. “Ehheheh… see ya around!”
Cautiously, Frederic reached a paint tendril out to feel around the open panel — half expecting it to suddenly snap closed and sever the temporary limb from his body. When it didn’t, he pulled himself until he could slide out, his face connecting with the wooden countertop as he tumbled down onto it.
He was free.
Frederic didn’t wait. At the first moment, he booked it. As fast as his slug-like body could take him — which is surprisingly fast, considering his situation — he was squeezing his way under the door and out onto the ground floor.
Mutt watched him go, his eyes a little wider. The other man’s unceremonious departure did not exactly surprise him — gone before he could get another word out.
While objectively, purchasing that hat had been a complete waste of money, Mutt couldn’t say that he regretted his decision. It had been a novel experience; something that despite the state of the world, he was sorely lacking in.
Hopefully, he’d never see Frederic again.
[“You guys hear that? I think he’s finally out.]
[ ”H-him? Wait a second — g… g-get out of my head!”]
[”Geez, I thought you’d want to know about the guy who tried to kill all of us breaking out of prison. Excuse me for assuming.”]
[”Y-you wanted to kill me too! What’s the difference?!”]
[”And I said I was sorry. God damn. You’re too sensitive.”]
[”Come on, Scaredy, Godhead means it! He’s really, really, really sorry!”]
[”Wow, okay, that’s rich coming from the guy who ALSO WANTED TO KILL ME!”]
[”Guys, guys, stop fighting. Please?”]
[”Who are we even talking about? Toxic? I thought he was dead?”]
[”Sam sold his hat.”]
[”… Sam did what?” ]
[”You’re kidding.”]
[”HEY, ASSHOLES! I CAN HEAR YOU!”]
The loud declaration from the apartment’s least favourite living Fred clone shut up the gossiping voices real quick. He hadn’t actually heard from any of them since Sam killed the last piece of him remaining in his old flat, and he was not at all happy to find out that most of them were still alive.
[”… Sooo… who’s that guy you were with? He your handler now?”]
[”He’s my NOTHING because I am RID OF HIM. And as soon as I’ve taken out that sanctimonious prig, I’m coming for Sam and the rest of you painted chucklefucks! YOU HEAR ME?! Enjoy the rest of your short, pathetic lives, because the next time I see any of you, you’re DEAD.”]
The last thing he heard from his unwelcome mental guests was the unmistakable sound of Godhead’s mocking laughter. With that, he forced them out, hoping beyond hope that they’d take the hint and leave him alone.
Thankfully, none of them were particularly interested in continuing this conversation with him. Fred could breathe a temporary sigh of relief.
So, what now?
Like his fellow portraits, this particular Fred hasn’t left his apartment since the day he’d woken up as this horrid thing; save for when Sam had brought this piece of him down to the ground floor. He’d been hiding in his bags, so he hadn’t been able to see anything around him. This is the first time he’s really witnessed the state of the building after whatever that thing in the sky is messed everything up.
It was a complete and utter disaster.
A couple of days ago, before all that nonsense with Sam happened, Fred could recall hearing a massive crash from somewhere below. That wasn’t very surprising on its own, as the disaster left a never-ending wave of carnage and destruction in its wake, but this crash felt a little too close for comfort. The entire building felt like it shook with the force — it even put a couple of new holes in his flat’s structurally unsound floors. Thankfully, the apartments remained standing, but in the back of his mind, he’d been wondering what exactly that was.
Presumably, he’s now getting his answer.
In front of him, right next to the entrance to the café, were the smouldering remains of a bus. It had rammed a hole clean through the front doors to the lobby, only stopping once it hit the front reception desk and crumpled like an aluminum can. Debris scattered everywhere — parts from the bus and the building itself all glowing from the excess heat that still lingered within.
A more pressing matter, however, was the corpses.
Outside of funerals, Frederic had never seen a dead body before. Not anything like this — splayed out in a tangled mess of blood, viscera, and charred skin. He made a face at the sight of it, a feeling of revulsion rising in the stomach he no longer has.
If one dead body is already an alarming amount, six is cause for mass hysteria. The bodies lay scattered across the floor like trash, all in various stages of decomposition. The unmistakable miasma of death drowned out the smell of smoke and flames.
Steeling his nerves, Fred made himself approach a body. He was shocked and disgusted, but not afraid. He can’t be put-off by the sight of death — not when there’s so many people he wants to kill.
The thing that lay before him wasn’t human. Not anymore, at least. It was some sort of creature made of hands, twisted together to form a parody of the human body. It had no visible facial features, just a giant hand where its head used to be. Its torn up clothing implied a casual demeanour — a plain green shirt and brown cargo shorts. Around its “neck” hung the smashed remains of a Polaroid camera.
Strangely, the state of the body suggested that it wasn’t the crash that killed it. A gunshot wound straight through the palm put it out of its misery.
Fred forced himself to chuckle under his breath. A tourist — someone out of place, attracted by the promise of unfamiliar beauty in a foreign city. Giving the other bodies he could see a brief glance, that appeared to be the same for all of them.
This must have been a tour bus. How quaint.
The hand infection that had taken over the bodies of the passengers brought to mind a specific person that Fred was trying not to think about. The architect of his eternal torture and second-worst person he’d ever met. Did Fred have this bus to blame for the two of them crossing paths? Maybe, though if that was the case, his transformation had gone differently compared to the other tourists. Perhaps that’s how he’d been able to survive while his fellow passengers perished?
That… didn’t make complete sense, especially if he was right about all the tourists being killed by something other than the bus crash. In any case, Frederic wasn’t interested in pulling this thread any further. Wherever that guy came from, he would be returning there shortly.
Fred backed away from the body. It wasn’t cold, but he was shivering. Everything about this situation was repulsive, and he wanted no part of it.
Dragging himself around the epicenter of the destruction, Fred carefully maneuvered his way around the corpses until he crossed the threshold into reception.
Somehow, this room escaped the chaos of the main lobby, allowing him to breathe a sigh of relief at not encountering more dead bodies. The stench of soot and rotting flesh was significantly less pronounced here, which he could be grateful for. Finally, Fred had found a place to think. Peace and quiet is hard to come by these days.
The place was mostly barren, save for a long counter, a table in the corner, and an empty shelf. There were three doors that he could see; one normal, one sealed off by strange, blood red vines of flesh, and one with a weird lock mechanism holding it shut.
Without even thinking about it, he slunk his way up to the counter, latching onto its front to pull himself upwards until he was resting on top. When he peered over the edge, he half-expected to find something hiding on the other side. However, his vantage point offered him no new insights. There was nothing there.
Plopping back down to the floor, Fred checked out the room’s only accessible door. The locked door didn’t have enough of a gap between it and the floor for him to push his way under, and he wasn’t exactly keen on finding out what was going on with the flesh-encumbered one. So, not even bothering to figure out how to use a door handle in this useless form, he crawled under the unlocked door and popped out on the other side, just as he’d done previously when he’d escaped that idiot’s store.
He’d found himself in what seemed to be a storage room, though it didn’t appear to have anything left inside. Empty shelves were stacked up in rows, presumably picked clean by some opportunistic looters. Nevertheless, it would serve well for his purposes. Unable to return to his flat without a plan to deal with its inhabitants, Fred decided that this is where he’d stay the night. He felt a little safer with a door between himself and everything going on outside.
He’d had a difficult few days, and while it wouldn’t be comfortable, he needed rest. Crawling his way up the shelf in the furthest corner, he nestled himself against one of its wooden racks and tried to get some rest. Hopefully, he’d have a clearer mind in the morning.
When he finally slipped into unconsciousness, he experienced the first dreamless night he’s had in a long time.
Indistinct chatter roused Fred from his slumber.
For a split second, he feared he was back in the glass case again. His bulbous eye shot open in a panic, and in a frenzy, he fell from the shelf he lay on and splattered to the ground.
Ouch.
The memories returned quickly from that point on. He was in the building’s reception area, not trapped in a glass prison. A wave of relief washed over him as he collected himself back into an indistinct mass of paint.
His next thought was that the voices were localized entirely within his own head. However, he didn’t recognize them as any of the reprehensible half-wits who share his name. So who — or what — was it…?
Approaching the door, he pressed himself up against it and strained to listen.
“This is a painting of The Visitor’s image, you say?”
“Yeah, uh… that should be it. Messed up the artist real bad.”
“Excellent! Or — ah, not about the artist. I hope they are as alright as they can be, considering the circumstances.”
“He’s… fine now, I think. Still alive, reasonably sane.”
“That’s good to hear. Thank you for your hard work, Sam. And… Frederic, was it? If you are to see him again, give him my regards. He was… a friend’s acquaintance. She would be happy to see him well.”
The sound of those two names spoken in succession felt like gunshots. Fred wanted nothing more than to bust the door down and confront that piece of shit, but he held himself back. He’d already tried that back at his flat — multiple times — and Sam put down everything he threw at him without even breaking a sweat. This tiny blob of paint wouldn’t stand a chance, even with the element of surprise on his side.
So, why had Fred just heard his own name? Something about a painting? That guy couldn’t mean… could he?
As carefully as he could manage, Fred squeezed his way under the door, making sure to stay hidden in the shadows and make as little noise as possible.
In the main room, he saw them. That one-armed sociopath, his posse of freaks, and a strange man in dark robes he’d never seen before.
The robed man held onto a carrying bag for a canvas. As soon as Fred laid his eye on the dark mesh bag, he felt a powerful wave of dread. That was it — the accursed painting that damned him to this hellish existence. A brilliant blue sky that hid something terrible in the depths of its hues. His subconscious mind held the memories of creating it so that he’d never forget them.
Whoever this guy is, he’s insane. What could he possibly be planning to do with that wretched thing?
A little girl interrupted them — one of Sam’s companions. “ Saaaam, I’m bored.” She whined, tugging on the hem of his sweater. “Are you done yet?”
“Yes, Sophie. Uh — Hellen?”
The giant woman with the crudely made paper mask was staring at the robed man unnervingly. In her hand, she clutched a massive cleaver; a weapon that Fred had found himself on the business end of in memories fresh enough he could still feel the dull, phantom aches of being sliced to bits. He hadn’t even known he could be severed like that until she’d oh-so-helpfully acquainted him with the concept.
“Jasper.”
The name rolled off her tongue as a cold, impersonal rasp. She was as readable as a brick wall.
“… What is it?”
For a few moments, she was silent. Towering over everyone in the room, her mere presence commanded attention like no one else could. The robed man — Jasper, presumably — fidgeted with the canvas bag.
“I hope you know what you’re doing.”
Before he could respond, she had already turned around to walk away. Fred jumped in a panic, quickly squeezing his way back under the door before she could pass his hiding spot. He wasn’t taking any chances this time — not when his existence was on the line. Fred only calmed down when he could no longer hear the heavy footfalls of her large work boots; Sam and Sophie close behind.
Somehow, he’d have to figure out a way to isolate Sam from his posse if he was going to have even the slightest sliver of a chance at taking him out. That was a problem for future Fred to solve, however, as he currently had his mind set on taking care of a certain other person who had unforgivably wronged him.
One at a time. His plans would succeed; he just had to take it slow and steady.
[“You want to kill that shop guy, right? Try stabbing him.”]
He flinched, the sound of the uninvited guest reverberating nauseatingly through the confines of his head.
[“What part of ‘fuck off’ do you not understand, birdbrain?!”] Frederic snapped. [“You are the last person I’d ever want to take advice from!”]
[“So you’re not going to stab him?”]
Godhead sounded mildly amused. Fred could almost see the smug expression on his faces.
[“YES, I’M STABBING HIM!”] He mentally shouted, nearly responding out loud. [“This is MY plan, not yours! Now GET OUT OF MY HEAD!!” ]
If the other Frederic believes he isn’t next up on the chopping block, he has another thing coming.
Fred flattened himself into a puddle against the ground, a drawn-out groan escaping him. Temporarily rid of his mental freeloader, Frederic’s mind inevitably wandered to that awful man from the café. Mutt.
As the physical embodiment of treachery and betrayal, this Fred aspect had no intention of honouring the promise he’d made to him in exchange for his freedom. That idiot was going to pay with his life, and Fred would enjoy every second of it.
Just as soon as Frederic figured out how exactly he’d do that.
Fred couldn’t lie to himself. His current form is pathetic. This tiny lump of paint is all he has left — weak and useless. How was something as pitiful as he is going to take out what had to be the biggest entity he’d seen thus far?
For one thing, Mutt’s size is really all he has going for him. Sure, he’s bigger than that giant rat monster that had been roaming the halls on the first floor, but he lacks any real monstrous traits to go with it. No sharp teeth, no massive claws, nothing. Just a ton of arms running down the sides of a ridiculously long body. Perhaps this could work to his detriment?
From the days Fred has spent observing him, he’s concluded that Mutt is both clumsy and inattentive. He’s always hitting himself against walls and furnishings when the store is empty, unable to control anything outside his field of vision. Meanwhile, Fred is quick and clever. Physically overpowering his victim is out of the question, but maybe he could out-maneuver him for long enough to plunge a knife into his flesh.
Speaking of knives, Fred realized he needed to arm himself. He has nothing on him at all.
“I… don’t know…” muttered a voice from the main room. “… Oh, Sybil… I wish you were here…”
Fred perked up at the sound of it. That weird man was still there. Perhaps he could use this to his advantage.
Cautiously sliding back into the reception room, he caught the robed man with his back turned. He was sitting in a chair, hunched over the desk in the room’s far corner. If you didn’t know what you were looking at, the cursed painting seemed deceptively mundane as it rested at his side.
Jasper held his head in his hands, his shoulders tense and his gaze lowered. He was mumbling under his breath, giving brief, furtive glances at the door blocked by the fleshy growths. The red vines appeared to pulse rhythmically, like they were taking slow, steady breaths.
Fred crept towards him, careful not to make even the slightest sound as he crawled across the wood-planked floor. When he finally bridged the gap between the two of them, Fred extended a couple of tendrils of paint from his body and wrapped them around the black bag, pulling it into his grasp. Embarrassingly, the canvas was now significantly bigger than him, but he tried not to let that get to him as he latched onto it.
“Hey, Jasper.” Frederic said, finally breaking the tense silence. “Interested in one of my pieces, are we?”
The robed man let out an unflattering yelp as he whipped his head around to see the tiny, mono-eyed lump of paint sitting atop The Visitor’s painting.
“M-my word!” Jasper shouted, scrambling backwards in his seat. “What in the world is that thing?!”
“Excuse me? That thing?” Fred repeated. “I’ll have you know this painting is mine! Put some respect on my name!”
“Fr-Frederic…?” he said, disbelief in his tone. “My stars, witnessing The One Above certainly did a number on you…”
He couldn’t see much of this Jasper guy’s form under the layers of dark fabric, but a golden mask prominently adorned his face under his hood. Only his eyes were visible, a striking red that implied he may be less human than he initially appeared.
“Yeah, yeah, we could talk about what painting this crap did to me all day, or we could talk business. ” Fred tapped one of his tendrils against the black bag underneath him. “I don’t know who that Sam guy thinks he is, but he does NOT have the right to give my work away!”
He knows that some other portrait, or possibly the Original Frederic himself, gave the painting away to Sam. However, Jasper has no idea about the multiple Freds thing. It’s the perfect scam.
“M-my apologies, Frederic, but I require this painting for a very important purpose! The fate of the world is at stake!”
“Yadda yadda yadda, heard it before. You’re not getting this without payment, you hear?! I don’t work for exposure!”
“I’m sorry, I really don’t have… um…” Jasper anxiously fidgeted with his gloved hands. “… How much money are you looking to receive in exchange for this piece?”
“Money?!” Fred laughed, his eye upturned into a mocking smile. “It’s the end of the world, and you think I need money?!”
“Then what is it you require?”
“I need a weapon, brainiac!” Frederic said. “You know, a big knife! For stabbing! Give me that, and the painting’s yours.”
Jasper blinked twice, his eyes darting around the room. He somehow looked even more nervous, if such a thing were possible.
“Uh… are you certain you don’t wish to be paid in the monetary sense? Enlisting help from the others, I could potentially scrounge together—”
“Did I stutter?!” Fred shouted, cutting Jasper off mid-sentence. “I want a knife! I know you have to have some, so cough one up!”
“I… I don’t think I should — you seem, um… ”
“What?!”
“… Unstable…?”
Frederic stammered a bit, offended by the insult. “Un… UNSTABLE?!” he shouted. “Oh, I’ll show YOU unstable, you wannabe M&W LARPer!”
Reaching more of his tendrils down to the bag below, he made a show out of pulling open its top, careful to avert his eye away from actually looking inside.
“Despite everything… I’m proud of this piece. It really is beautiful. You should take a look at it — maybe you’ll understand what you’re missing out on!”
He felt like he was waving around a loaded gun, instinctively nervous about accidentally shooting himself. He may have been born cursed, but he wasn’t exactly itching to find out if viewing The Visitor’s form would mess him up even further. Hopefully, Jasper wouldn’t call his bluff.
“N-no! Don’t! You can’t!” Jasper shouted, waving his hands around in a panic. He’d taken the bait, falling for it hook, line and sinker.
“It’s my painting, and I’ll do what I want with it!” Fred declared; a sadistic tone to his voice that sent a shiver down Jasper’s spine. “Unless you’d like to take it off my hands? The offer’s still on the table…”
Jasper, his hands clenched into tight fists, suddenly relaxed his posture as his will to argue drained from his body. “Ugh, fine! Just please don’t open that bag. I’m begging you.”
Fred snapped the bag closed, gazing at Jasper through a half-lidded eye. “You made the right choice, shit-for-brains. Maybe you're not as dumb as you look.”
With a heavy sigh, Jasper began to dig his hands in the pockets of his robes. After a couple moments, he produced a small dagger; its handle carved with ornate patterns and its blade polished to a mirror finish.
“I… was meaning to use this in the ceremony, but the offerings are more important. Please accept this.”
After a brief period of hesitation, he held out the knife — allowing Fred to wrap his tendrils around it and pull it out of his hands.
Frederic made a face as he inspected the weapon, humming a singular note. He'd been hoping to receive something more substantial, but this would have to do. At the very least, it appeared to be of quality craftsmanship.
He wondered what exactly Jasper had meant by “the ceremony.” If the robes were any indicator, either he actually was LARPing, or he was in some sort of cult. Whatever case, this dagger was in safer hands. Probably.
“Here you go — the painting. It's all yours.”
Gripping the knife, Fred crawled back down onto the floor; releasing his hold on the canvas bag. He'd left behind smudges of bright green on the dark nylon, but the painting was otherwise unharmed. Jasper breathed a sigh of relief as he snatched it up, wiping his forehead under his mask with the back of his hand.
“Th-thank you, Frederic. I… we really needed this offering. You've done the world a great service.”
“Can it, red-eyes.” Frederic mocked, turning his back to the Visitor-obsessed idolist. “You want my advice? Get some sleep.”
“So… you saw it?”
The sound of Mutt’s voice broke the relative quiet of the café. It was another slow day today, only the usual regulars to serve, sans a certain man who hasn’t made an appearance in a couple of days. Fred hopes that means he’d died.
“Saw what?” Frederic said with a groan, sulking in the corner of his glass prison.
“Ehhehehe… that thing in the sky! I think people are calling it The Visitor?”
Somehow, Mutt has an uncanny ability to identify and bring up every topic Fred does not want to discuss.
“What do you think?” Fred snapped, avoiding eye-contact.
“Well, some people around here got changed without even looking at the damn thing. Just thought I’d ask!”
To that, Fred didn’t respond. Mutt, terminally incapable of taking a hint, continued on his tangent.
“I saw it. Not in any way I could describe, but maybe that’s for the best. Eheheheh…”
He held up the mug he’d been polishing, scrutinizing it under the light. Satisfied with his work, he placed it back under the counter with the others.
Freshly brewed coffee is hard to come by these days — which is why Mutt’s Fish & Chips serves instant. Still, people buy it anyway.
“Honestly, I feel a little bad for the people who got altered without seeing the thing. You can’t even claim the bragging rights! Crappy deal if you ask me.”
“You talk too much.” Frederic said, finally breaking his silence. “Shut the hell up.”
“Aw, don’t be like that, buddy.”
“When I get out of here, I’m going to kill you.”
Fred had threatened him plenty of times before — during impassioned rants of decreasing feasibility — but his tone here was different. He stated it like a fact of common sense, like he was informing Mutt that water is wet or that gravity still exists.
Mutt simply laughed, blissfully unaware that he’d already sealed his fate.
From the moment he’d slipped under the door and out into the disaster that is the main lobby, Fred knew he’d eventually find himself back here.
Mutt’s Fish & Chips.
The days he’d spent in his care left Fred intimately familiar with the owner’s schedule. He’d been camping outside the door to the closed store, waiting for the exact moment he knew the sole occupant would be at his most vulnerable. When he was certain that the time was right, he pushed himself and the dagger under the locked door, thankful that his weapon was small enough to fit.
He could tell from the way Mutt was breathing — gentle and steady — that he was asleep. Mutt’s body spread throughout the room, his cursed form bringing to mind images of a massive, elongated arthropod. Despite the danger he’d put himself in by setting Frederic free, he hadn’t changed a thing about his sleeping habits. Either he actually trusts him, or, more likely, Mutt sorely underestimates what he’s capable of.
Fred ran a paint tendril down the sharpened edge of his knife, leaving smears of green where he’d made contact. Unique among his fellow portraits, the paint that makes up his body is toxic. Coincidentally, that’s where the nickname he hates so much — Toxic Fred — is derived from. Coating the blade in this dangerous substance would turn a simple puncture wound into a deadly infection as the poison entered the victim’s bloodstream. He felt unreasonably proud of himself for coming up with this idea — perhaps this body isn’t as useless as he’d initially thought.
Avoiding contact with any wayward lengths of flesh, Fred slowly made his way towards the front counter. Dragging himself upwards, he flattened himself against the countertop, knife clattering beside him.
Carefully, Fred peered over the edge, squinting his eye to make out the shape on the other side. It was difficult to see in the darkness, but if he focused, there he was. Laying on the floor, hugging part of himself with multiple pairs of arms. According to Mutt, sleeping behind the counter is the best way to maximize efficiency — the guy truly has no life outside of work.
Clutching the knife, Fred worked up the nerve to launch his attack. All he had to do was jump down, thrust the blade into his chest, then retrieve it and escape. The venom would work its magic from there, dooming him to a slow and painful death. Exactly what he deserves.
Steady.
The last couple of days have been building up to this moment.
Fred was going to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.
He has to.
…
The little blob of paint blinked. He hadn’t moved an inch. Why hadn’t he moved? This is what he wanted, isn’t it? To kill everyone who’s ever wronged him, showing the world he’s not the pathetic loser everyone thinks he is. And his victims deserve it! Who sells someone to a pawnshop to be locked up in a glass display case and subjected to annoying babbling by the world’s worst conversationalist? Don’t they all deserve to die?
Despite his best efforts, his mind wandered to his last days spent in his apartment. Back when he still had an actual body — if you could even call that grotesque lump of pigment a body. Forced to listen to the endless chatter of the idiots in his head, who all think they could be Frederic better than him. Beaten to death repeatedly until nothing remained but the green stains he’d left behind.
Frederic has never killed someone before. He’d tried, and he’d failed. Now, when he had the easiest target directly in the line of fire… he came to a horrific realization.
He dropped the knife, allowing it to fall to the countertop below. It made a clattering sound as it bounced on the wood surface before coming to a stop right beside him.
No matter how hard he tried to fight it, maybe he was destined to be nothing but a pathetic loser.
With a spray bottle in one hand and a dishrag in another, Mutt was taking advantage of another slow day to attempt to get some persistent green stains off of the front counter. An annoyed grunt escaped him as he increased the pressure of his scrubbing, but the pesky imperfection refused to budge. He’d been at this all morning.
In his distraction, he hadn’t noticed the little green blob climbing until he plopped down onto the countertop, something shiny and metallic falling to his side.
“Oh, Fred!” he said, a bit surprised to see him again. “Ehhehehe, what brings you back here? Forget something?”
Frederic’s presence made Mutt feel a little disconcerted, but he didn’t let it show in his demeanor. He remained chipper, greeting Fred with the same enthusiasm he shows to every customer.
“I’m here to sell something.” Frederic said, his voice lacking any emotion. “Look at this.”
He pushed the object closer with a paint tendril. It was a small, ornately carved knife — the blade dripping with some sort of strange green substance. Paint?
“It’s a dagger. Coated in poison. Probably dangerous.” Fred explained. “What can I get for it?”
Mutt picked it up by the handle, which was also covered in smears of half-dried paint. Fred must have been carrying it around with him.
“Poison, you say?” Mutt said, his head tilted to the side. “Hmm… interesting…”
He turned the blade over in his hand, holding it up to the light.
“25 dollars. Howsabout it? We got a deal?”
Fred grumbled a bit. He’d been hoping to make a little more, but he felt too exhausted to haggle on the price. “Yeah, sure, whatever. Take it.”
“Great!” Mutt said, clasping another pair of hands together as he cracked a wide grin. “Thanks for your patronage!”
Before Mutt could duck down to rifle through his earnings, Fred stopped him. “W-wait, Mutt — uh, can I ask you something?”
“Hm?”
Mutt gave him an inquisitive look, his eyebrows raised.
“Now listen, I wouldn’t be asking you this if I had any other options. Don’t think this makes us… friends. What you did to me is unforgivable, and you’ll be hard pressed to hear me say anything positive about you. But… ”
“Ehheheh… how about we get to the point, eh?”
Fred refused to make eye contact with him, his gaze instead fixed on the knife he’d just sold.
“I… need somewhere to stay. Look, I can’t go back to my apartment for… reasons, and things out there suck. Despite… everything, it’s safe here.”
The little blob of paint had taken on the demeanour of a wounded animal accepting its imminent destruction.
“All I need is some time, okay? And I don’t expect to stay for free — I don’t want handouts! As long as you don’t make me do anything stupid, I’ll work for you.”
With a small smile on his face, Mutt retreated behind the counter and began thumbing through the cash register. When he reappeared, he had two polymer banknotes in his hand — a twenty and a five. He pushed them towards Fred, then picked up the knife; twirling it between his fingers.
“… I’m going to have to hide anything sharp around here, aren’t I?” Mutt suddenly said, giving Fred a strange look.
“Wh — what is that supposed to mean? I told you I…”
Fred trailed off, his expression softening as he realized what the other man was implying.
“… Are you saying that I can stay…?”
Mutt laughed. “Ehehehe! Why the hell not?” He said, shrugging a pair of shoulders. “I could use an extra pair of hands, or… well… you know what I mean.”
“Yes—! I-I mean. Yeah. You, uh, made the right choice.” Frederic said, crossing two thin limbs over his front. “‘Cause if you said no, I would’ve just hidden out here anyway.”
In the back of his mind, Mutt knew that this was probably a bad idea. Something told him that Fred hadn’t exactly quelled his homicidal urges, and perhaps he was less safe than he’d like to believe. Still… having him around made things interesting, and part of him feared that without something to break up the monotony of work, he’d lose his sanity.
“Eheh, and I would’ve kicked you out, freeloader.” He teased.
“Please,” Fred scoffed. “You wouldn’t even know I was here.”
Mutt’s gaze fell on the streaks of green paint on the floor and counter, some of them clearly older than the others.
“Somehow, I doubt it.”
“Whatever. The point is, I’m staying.” He said, snatching up the bills Mutt had placed before him. Now that he was technically homeless, he’d have to find a place to stash his earnings…
“Ehehe! Welcome aboard, valued unofficial employee!” Mutt said, giving Frederic a warm smile. “Wow, I’ve never been an employer before. I guess I gotta start paying you a salary…”
Frederic had returned here to kill him, but at the last moment, he’d changed his mind. He will tell himself that it was because the time wasn’t right; that any day now, he’ll enact his plan and rain death and destruction on everyone who’d ever looked down on him. Someday, when he gets his body back, and has some place far, far away to escape to. However, subconsciously, he knew the truth — even though he’ll never admit it to himself.
He… doesn’t actually want to kill this guy. Maybe he never wanted to in the first place.
“Well? I’m gonna have to show you the ropes around here, am I not? Chop chop, ehehhehe, let’s get this over with!”
Fred rolled his eye. “Yeah, like there’s anything even remotely challenging about your job…”
[“Look at that, Toxic found something productive to do with his time.”]
[“Toxic… has a job now? I-I — wait, I TOLD YOU to stay OUT OF MY HEAD!”]
[“And again, I’m just relaying helpful information. Come on, you can read my thoughts. I haven’t been on the murder thing in days.” ]
[“I DON’T CARE! I’m not talking to you!”]
[“Give it like a week. He’ll either quit, or do something stupid and get himself killed.”]
[“Wanna make another bet? I need to make my money back from the last one…”]
[“Sure, only if you don’t try to cheat by encouraging him again.”]
[“I CAN STILL HEAR YOU, YOU CONTEMPTUOUS DICKHEADS! SHUT THE FUCK UP!”]
Like the mental pests they are, the other Frederics scattered like insects.