On the Acquisition of Brides (1/1)
Disclaimer: The characters in this story belong to the characters' actors, and also to CollegeHumor. This sad attempt at a story is for entertainment and parody purposes only and is not meant to infringe on the rights of the previously mentioned people/organization. This is also not for profit.
Also-biblical quote is biblical, and therefore not mine.
Title: On the Acquisition of Brides (1/1)
Author: narukyu
Fandom: Streeter Theeter (CollegeHumor)/Hardly Working (CollegeHumor)
Characters/Pairings: Phantom/Sarah, Phantom/Pat, past Pat/Sarah; Jake, Amir, Murph, others
Rating: PG-13 to light R-ish for violence, language, imagery.
Summary: The Phantom finds himself open to taking a bride other than his beloved 'Sahrah'.
ONE
The Phantom stalked his prey.
He knew her schedule. He knew all of their schedules, but he knew hers the most. At noon, she was most likely seeking to ease her hunger with that thing called 'lunch' and those other things called 'food'.
She ate like a greasy haired hobo. The closest thing she ever came to consuming a succulent fig was when she ate a Fig Newton.
That just wasn't right.
The Phantom hurried and ducked and crept his way to his precious bride's favorite setting for lunch. The room was empty-or was quickly enough. The virgins who dared to eat inside were quickly persuaded to leave with merely a lingering glare.
Once the room was empty, he climbed up on the table and arranged his limbs in a fetching contortion, propping his head up on his elbow. He laid in wait.
Ten minutes later, the door opened.
His bride came through first, addressing someone in the hallway. “Yeah, I'll be right-”
“Sahrah,” he purred.
Sarah's head whipped around fast. She came to an abrupt stop in the threshold of the door, a lunch bag curled in one hand. Then she closed her eyes, her mouth pulling downward in an unhappy fashion. “Oh, fuck me,” she muttered venomously.
The Phantom, a generous man, considered this offer. Sadly, he declined. “As much as I long to make our bodies one at last, I only accept engraved invitations written in lamb's blood.”
Anger sparked in his bride's eyes. “That wasn't an invitation, engraved or other-”
The Phantom rolled off of the table quickly, coming to a graceful stop-more or less-in front of his bride, and dropped to one bent knee. He grabbed her free hand with one of his, clearing his throat importantly.
Occasionally, the Phantom sought the sage advice of the man most experienced with the frailer kind, Jacob Hurwitz. He believed the correct vernacular for people like Jake was Man Whore, which rang with truth because Jake only got women when money was involved.
ZING! He bet Jake was charred from that burnage. He should post that and put it on digg.
Ahem. Anyway...
Time and time again, under dire threat or simple bullying, the Lothario insisted that the quickest way to get Sarah to like him was to woo her with pretty words and weeds.
And he was all out of weeds.
The Phantom cleared his throat again. “Sahrah. Entreat me not to leave thee...” The Phantom's mind went blank. There was more to that quote, wasn't there? He improvised. “Because then shit really gets ugly, you know? I have to go looking for you, and torture may or may not be involved.” Sarah ripped her hand from his grip. “Not you! Just your family and everyone you care about-”
The door opened again. The interloper stopped just inside of the room, a brief moment of confusion passing over his face.
“Oh!” Patrick blinked. “Are you guys busy? I can leave...”
Sarah lunged for him, gripping his arm. “No! No. Phantom was just leaving, right?” If looks could kill, the Phantom was be a pile of ashy... ashes.
The Phantom was not sulking because the Phantom does not sulk. He was far too burned and horribly disfigured for his facial muscles to move in such a fashion. There was some huffing and other overt signs of his displeasure as he heaved himself to his feet.
Patrick's hands were raised. “Really, it's okay-”
“No, stay,” Sarah insisted.
“Well...” Patrick frowned. His gaze flickered over her shoulder. Suddenly, he smiled. “Phantom can eat with us, right? That would be nice, wouldn't it?”
“Um, yeah. That's great,” Sarah said distantly. She leveled one last glare at The Phantom over her shoulder before looking up at Patrick. “I'm going to go get a soda from machine. You want one?”
“Yeah, sure! Thanks.”
The Phantom sidled up to his rakishly handsome love rival. “Patrick,” he intoned ominously, eyes narrowing behind his mask.
“Hey, Phantom!” Patrick greeted cheerfully. “How are you doing?”
“Better a moment ago.”
“Pat, you want to come with me?” Sarah jerked her head to the door meaningfully.
Patrick looked uncomfortable. “Um, no. I'm good,” he said faintly.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
Sarah threw her hands up in the air. “Fine! It's your funeral.”
“Yes, Patrick,” the Phantom said snidely. “Your funeral. No one will show up. I guarantee this.”
“Whatever,” Sarah muttered, reaching for the knob. The last the Phantom saw of her was a flick of her brown hair disappearing through the doorway. Damn. She didn't even ask him if he wanted anything-even though it was absurdly clear that the only things he'd ever drink were cat's blood, the tears of saints, and the juice from the crushed innards of Cthulhu.
Oh, and Mountain Dew.
“Phantom, Sarah and I, we aren't like that.”
The Phantom blinked, confused. What trickery was this? But Patrick's gaze was calm, his expression benevolent. Two pale hands cupped their opposite elbows loosely.
Slowly, the Phantom lifted an arm in Sarah's direction. “But Sahrah is a woman.”
“Um. Yes.”
“A lovely woman.”
“Yes, very.”
The Phantom's eyes narrowed. “But you do not desire her?”
“That's right.” Patrick nodded.
There was a long pause.
The Phantom started to chuckle, but stopped at Patrick's annoyed expression. “You are surely jesting!”
“I am surely not. Look, Sarah and I...” Patrick looked at the door for a moment, his eyes softening. Then they hardened, shooting back to the Phantom. “I just don't see her that way.”
“But why ever not? Are you deficient? Are you impotent?” Another thought occurred to him, too genius not to be spoken. “Are you secretly a woman?”
Of his theories, the Phantom liked the last idea the best. Patrick would make a lovely bride. The Phantom reached his hands out, flattening both palms over Patrick's flat chest.
“No, I'm not-quit touching me!”
Patrick as a bride. It was more than a fascinating idea-it was a brilliant idea. He could see it now: corpse pale skin even paler made against the white fabric of the virgin's gown.
“I said-quit-”
“I'm checking-”
Patrick stopped the Phantom's hand two inches from his final goal-the front of his trousers. “I'm one hundred percent male, okay?!” The yell was piercing and quite woman-like, contradicting his claim.
“Then... are you a homosexual?” the Phantom asked, fascinated. “I thought they burned the last of your kind to the ground centuries ago. Clearly, they have been remiss in their duties.”
“I'm not gay,” Patrick spat. “And besides, that's such a terrible thing to say! And so dated. This is the twenty-first century, Phantom. Get with the times.”
The Phantom was offended. “Hey, I'm hip! I'm down!” He paused, then bragged, “I even have an exclusive membership to the Book of Faces.”
The dark anger on his face shifted to a vague bewilderment. “You mean Facebook.”
“No, I mean the Book of Faces,” the Phantom corrected, pleased to instruct others in the more noble arts. “It's this very hip, very edgy fringe group that specializes in carving off the faces of their adversaries and pressing them into the Livre de Visages. Like flowers! It preserves them very well.”
A moment passed in complete silence.
Patrick's eyes were huge. “I am so sorry I asked,” he murmured. The boy turned around stiffly and walked out of the room, his shoulders stiff.
The Phantom poked his head out of the door, peering down the hallway after him. “It has an exclusive membership!” the Phantom called out, oddly hurt. “They only let in the best of the best!”
Rather than turning around to praise the Phantom for his skill (for he had much skill, so much skill that the Praetor of the Book of Faces killed himself in the off-chance that the Phantom might choose to carve off his face), the boy suddenly started to run instead, ducking down a hallway and out of sight. The Phantom had seen doomed souls fleeing from the gaping maws of the hounds of hell at a pace only half of Patrick's gait.
The Phantom glanced around the room for a moment, just in case. As he thought, there were no hell hounds.
But that left an unanswered question: what was Patrick running from?
“Perhaps he remembered that he had some place to be,” the Phantom mused. Yes, of course. That had to be it.
Sarah skipped down the hall, two drinks in hand. “Pat, I got your-” She blinked at the empty room.
Her small, female brain clicked and groaned under the effort of thoughts. She turned to him suddenly, her eyes narrowed and her mouth flattened in a thin line.
“No big D, right? He was a total downer.” Who would look lovely in a dress.
“Phantom,” she growled, slamming him into the door. “What. Did. You. Do?”
“Geez, someone's on her period.” Her angry gaze turned deadly. His leg exploded in pain. “OW! My shin!”
She stalked away, her hair swishing violently over her shoulder.
The Phantom considered reviewing that no 'hell hounds' conclusion because... well, there was a joke in there somewhere, and it ended with 'bitch'.
TWO
Patrick had nightmares about the Book of Faces for weeks. Fucking Phantom, he thought angrily, but almost immediately took the thought back. Thinking of the Phantom didn't bring the Phantom around as quickly as speaking about him, but Patrick didn't want to test his luck, especially after regaining some element of normalcy in his workday.
Patrick got up from his chair, stretching his legs. He made a decision quickly and crossed the office floor.
“Hey, Amir,” he called out, smiling reflexively once he had his coworker in sight.
Amir spun his chair around to face Patrick. “S'up!” The senior writer's glasses were perched upside down on the very end of his nose, and he was slouching deeply in his chair, deep enough to fall off. All of that wasn't enough to distract Patrick from the sight of Jake's response to the greeting-a full body flinch, a hostile scowl, and a hurried attempt at a neutral face.
Patrick dragged his eyes back to Amir. “About that article idea I sent you...”
The rest of his query was drowned out by the sound of a stampede.
At the other end of the office, Caldwell burst from one of the hallways, red and panting. He weaved in and around the desks quickly, even vaulting over one chair. Quick on his heels were at least twenty people-some laughing, some yelling, some scowling at the illustrator's back. Caldwell's own face was a mixture of glee and fear.
Finally, Josh overtook him, clapping him on the back. Caldwell came to a slow stop, gasping for air. The crowd followed his example, creating a semi-circle around Caldwell and Josh as they all tried to catch their breath. Murph broke the pattern, standing in front of the semi-circle as he tried to call for some order.
“Okay, next round people!”
“What the hell...” Patrick muttered musingly.
Unable to speak, Caldwell just patted Josh on the shoulder and collapsed into a chair not too far away from Patrick, putting his head down on the table. Josh, on the other hand, looked smug, and was provoking the crowd with 'bring it on' gestures.
“And everyone start texting... now!” Murph was staring at his cell. Suddenly, he lifted a hand with stop watch swinging from it. “Okay! Tabletop. Chug. Cartwheel. Josh, go!”
Josh started darting around, looking for something. The crowd watched, some jeering. Josh found a pitcher of lemonade on an intern's desk and, with no hesitation at all, started to drink it all down. His atypical action was, predictably, accompanied by a chant consisting of 'chug, chug, chug!'
“What the freak?” Amir straightened up in his chair, flipping his glasses back over. “Jake...?”
“No clue,” Jake said quietly. He raised his voice and called out, “Hey Vin? What the hell, man?”
On the outer edge of the crowd was Vinny with a camcorder. He looked over his shoulder and edged closer to them, careful not to move the camera's focus from a chugging Josh.
“Hey, guys. It's, well... it's sorta this... improv/truth or dare/tag... thing. With texting as prompts.” Vinny sighed and shook his head. “Don't ask me the rules. Josh thought it up. If you ask me, I think someone swapped his decaf with the good stuff this morning.”
“And you're taping it, why exactly?” Jake probed, frowning.
“...” Vinny suddenly had that cagey, guilty look of Peeping Toms and voyeurs everywhere. His hands flexed agitatedly on his camcorder. “Don't judge me.”
Josh slammed down the empty pitcher with a triumphant yell, then finished off with an awkward, but successful cartwheel. He turned slightly green when he landed, a hand clutching his stomach. Despite that, he valiantly started to run when Murph ordered it-presumably to start the 'tag' portion of the game, Patrick guessed as he backed up out of their way. The cheering, laughing group started racing after him, their hands reaching out to touch.
But before Josh could get very far (barely past Jake's desk, even), the Phantom was there, sticking his foot out. Josh tripped and went down hard. The crowd came to an abrupt and confusing stop, startled by the interference.
Not that the Phantom noticed. “Me next, me next!”
“Uh, alrighty then!” His frown easing, Murph lifted his cell. “Text, now!” A few seconds later, “And the first three texts are... Go right. Marionette. Chick-flick moment.” He clicked the button on the stop watch. “Aaaaand go!”
“Okay!” The Phantom looked left and right real quick, calculating, and then lunged toward Patrick, who was to his right. An iron-like grip folded over his wrists. Patrick yelped as he was suddenly dragged to his toes and spun, like he was nothing more than a doll. Or a marionette.
As if he wasn't dizzy enough, Patrick was bent backwards, one of the Phantom's hands grinding Patrick's wrists together while the other supported his spine. Patrick struggled for balance, and had none. And then the Phantom leaned in, his mask growing closer and closer, the gleaming whiteness of it possessing all of Patrick's visual field-that, and those intense eyes.
His nose grazed the mask. Pressure fell on his lips. Patrick's mind went numb.
There was silence. Then there was an explosion of applause.
Patrick was placed back on his feet and shoved back to the desks. He stumbled slightly on weak knees, turning around just in time to see the Phantom bowing to his audience.
“Okay,” Murph said with a chuckle. “Now, run!”
“Haha! I shall remain victorious!” And thus the Phantom hurled himself through the office, cackling madly as a crowd of shouting and cheering coworkers ran after him, each vying to be the first to tag him out. Josh stubbornly limped after them, a hand clamped over his bleeding nose.
Patrick slowly pivoted to his coworkers, willing that last scene to have been a product of his overactive imagination, but Amir and Jake were staring up at him, eyes wide.
There was a long, awkward silence.
Jake cracked first, his eyes glinting with morbid fascination. “How was it?”
Patrick was quiet for a minute. “I think I felt tongue.”
Oh God.
He was definitely not going to get any work done today.
THREE
No surprise-Patrick didn't get any work done. He daydreamed, he agonized, he remembered. He was about to go nuts for sure. And there was only one person in the world he could talk to that could possibly make things better.
The workday ended before Patrick could corner him, but, thankfully, it was fairly easy to find the Phantom in the office. All one needed to do was follow the flickering lights.
The Phantom was in the office kitchen.
Patrick bustled into the area quickly, not bothering to announce his presence. “Hey, Phantom. Hi.” He braced his hands on the counter that the Phantom was working on, paling slightly when he realized that, whatever the Phantom was slicing through? It was red, raw-looking, and bleeding a little. But that wasn't enough to break him. “I need... well, I need to talk to you. For closure! About closure. Um.” He paused, reconsidering his strategy, but then just plunged into the mess. “You see, that kiss earlier today-I understand you were under a time limit and desperate, but-”
“You smelled like pork rinds and fresh figs,” the masked man said quietly. He continued to slice even, meticulous slabs off of the oozing piece of meat. “It's a very pleasant smell.”
Patrick blinked rapidly at the Phantom's profile. “Okay.” Realizing reciprocity was the gateway to understanding, he smiled. “And you! You smelled like...” Patrick's smile dimmed as he recalled. “A burn ward and the tears of a thousand infants.”
The Phantom turned, making a delighted noise. “Thank you, that's so kind of you to notice!” There was an awkward pause. The Phantom gestured between the two of them with the knife. “So, we cool?”
“Yes. Yes, of course!” Patrick was relieved. His eyes dropped down to the clean bit of counter near him. He traced a circular burn mark on the surface with his fingers. “It was just a dare and all, I get it. No harm, no foul. Nothing more to it than that-” He looked up and his mouth slammed shut, because he just realized that the Phantom had lost the knife and regained a bat. That the Phantom was no longer in front of him, but skulking behind him, a heavy breath rattling through the small mouth hole of his mask.
The Phantom swung. There was a hollow metal clunk and a fireflash of pain, and, dazed, Patrick hit the floor with his knees. And then there complete and utter blackness, and nothing more.
FOUR
Patrick woke up slowly, grimacing at his throbbing head. It felt like Kobe was warming up for practice in his skull, using his brain as a basketball. He tried to reach up and grab at the pain, but the motion was immediately restrained. He opened up his eyes, narrowing his wavering vision on the very pink plastic ties that trapped his wrists to the hard wooden chair.
There was no mystery where he was: he was in the Phantom's catacombs. Seated across from him was his host. The other man was leaning over a chessboard, replacing all of the figures to their correct positions. He seemed very focused on the task.
“You could have just asked,” Patrick complained. Again. The Phantom let out a 'hm', but otherwise made no comment. Patrick struggled with his bondage to no avail. Trying the only other alternative, he asked, “Let me go?”
The Phantom's hands froze over his chess pieces. He lifted his head slowly, dark and intense eyes gleaming behind the mask. Patrick's lungs froze. “Never,” the Phantom breathed.
Patrick's head buzzed wildly, and not just because he just took a bat to the head. He was unable to look away from the Phantom's devouring gaze. He could barely blink.
For all of his social faux pas, for all of his awkwardness, for all his mistakes, the man in front of him wasn't just a man in a mask-he was an ancient being with unfathomable powers, unknowable motivations, and unspeakable tastes. He was frightening, he was terrible, and all those other things Patrick knew about him? His crappy chess game, his fear of heights, his disdain for the color mauve... they all meant nothing because they were mere grains of sand in the beach that was the Phantom's personality.
A very, very scary beach that might possibly kill him one day over a girl he no longer had feelings for.
Patrick's life? Yeah, it officially sucked.
Suddenly, the Phantom blinked. The heaviness disappeared immediately.
“Here, you go first,” he chirped solicitously, spinning the board so that Patrick had the white pieces.
Patrick let out a sigh, rotating his wrists once. He straightened up in his uncomfortable seat, squinting at the chess board. “Pawn to E4,” he decided.
The Phantom clapped his hands gleefully. “Ah, yes... the opening gambit.” He reached over, plucking the correct piece from it's place and moving it to the right square. Settling back into his own chair, the Phantom stared contemplatively at the game, sussing out his own moves while tapping his jaw with one finger.
Rolling his head back and scowling at the ceiling, Patrick steeled his jaw. Ancient being or not, this was the final straw-he just had to talk the Phantom into a gentler method of kidnapping. His insurance didn't cover head injuries.
But, more importantly, there was that other thing he desperately needed to address...
“Phantom, why am I in a dress?”
THE END
Also-biblical quote is biblical, and therefore not mine.
Title: On the Acquisition of Brides (1/1)
Author: narukyu
Fandom: Streeter Theeter (CollegeHumor)/Hardly Working (CollegeHumor)
Characters/Pairings: Phantom/Sarah, Phantom/Pat, past Pat/Sarah; Jake, Amir, Murph, others
Rating: PG-13 to light R-ish for violence, language, imagery.
Summary: The Phantom finds himself open to taking a bride other than his beloved 'Sahrah'.
ONE
The Phantom stalked his prey.
He knew her schedule. He knew all of their schedules, but he knew hers the most. At noon, she was most likely seeking to ease her hunger with that thing called 'lunch' and those other things called 'food'.
She ate like a greasy haired hobo. The closest thing she ever came to consuming a succulent fig was when she ate a Fig Newton.
That just wasn't right.
The Phantom hurried and ducked and crept his way to his precious bride's favorite setting for lunch. The room was empty-or was quickly enough. The virgins who dared to eat inside were quickly persuaded to leave with merely a lingering glare.
Once the room was empty, he climbed up on the table and arranged his limbs in a fetching contortion, propping his head up on his elbow. He laid in wait.
Ten minutes later, the door opened.
His bride came through first, addressing someone in the hallway. “Yeah, I'll be right-”
“Sahrah,” he purred.
Sarah's head whipped around fast. She came to an abrupt stop in the threshold of the door, a lunch bag curled in one hand. Then she closed her eyes, her mouth pulling downward in an unhappy fashion. “Oh, fuck me,” she muttered venomously.
The Phantom, a generous man, considered this offer. Sadly, he declined. “As much as I long to make our bodies one at last, I only accept engraved invitations written in lamb's blood.”
Anger sparked in his bride's eyes. “That wasn't an invitation, engraved or other-”
The Phantom rolled off of the table quickly, coming to a graceful stop-more or less-in front of his bride, and dropped to one bent knee. He grabbed her free hand with one of his, clearing his throat importantly.
Occasionally, the Phantom sought the sage advice of the man most experienced with the frailer kind, Jacob Hurwitz. He believed the correct vernacular for people like Jake was Man Whore, which rang with truth because Jake only got women when money was involved.
ZING! He bet Jake was charred from that burnage. He should post that and put it on digg.
Ahem. Anyway...
Time and time again, under dire threat or simple bullying, the Lothario insisted that the quickest way to get Sarah to like him was to woo her with pretty words and weeds.
And he was all out of weeds.
The Phantom cleared his throat again. “Sahrah. Entreat me not to leave thee...” The Phantom's mind went blank. There was more to that quote, wasn't there? He improvised. “Because then shit really gets ugly, you know? I have to go looking for you, and torture may or may not be involved.” Sarah ripped her hand from his grip. “Not you! Just your family and everyone you care about-”
The door opened again. The interloper stopped just inside of the room, a brief moment of confusion passing over his face.
“Oh!” Patrick blinked. “Are you guys busy? I can leave...”
Sarah lunged for him, gripping his arm. “No! No. Phantom was just leaving, right?” If looks could kill, the Phantom was be a pile of ashy... ashes.
The Phantom was not sulking because the Phantom does not sulk. He was far too burned and horribly disfigured for his facial muscles to move in such a fashion. There was some huffing and other overt signs of his displeasure as he heaved himself to his feet.
Patrick's hands were raised. “Really, it's okay-”
“No, stay,” Sarah insisted.
“Well...” Patrick frowned. His gaze flickered over her shoulder. Suddenly, he smiled. “Phantom can eat with us, right? That would be nice, wouldn't it?”
“Um, yeah. That's great,” Sarah said distantly. She leveled one last glare at The Phantom over her shoulder before looking up at Patrick. “I'm going to go get a soda from machine. You want one?”
“Yeah, sure! Thanks.”
The Phantom sidled up to his rakishly handsome love rival. “Patrick,” he intoned ominously, eyes narrowing behind his mask.
“Hey, Phantom!” Patrick greeted cheerfully. “How are you doing?”
“Better a moment ago.”
“Pat, you want to come with me?” Sarah jerked her head to the door meaningfully.
Patrick looked uncomfortable. “Um, no. I'm good,” he said faintly.
“Are you sure?”
“Yeah.”
Sarah threw her hands up in the air. “Fine! It's your funeral.”
“Yes, Patrick,” the Phantom said snidely. “Your funeral. No one will show up. I guarantee this.”
“Whatever,” Sarah muttered, reaching for the knob. The last the Phantom saw of her was a flick of her brown hair disappearing through the doorway. Damn. She didn't even ask him if he wanted anything-even though it was absurdly clear that the only things he'd ever drink were cat's blood, the tears of saints, and the juice from the crushed innards of Cthulhu.
Oh, and Mountain Dew.
“Phantom, Sarah and I, we aren't like that.”
The Phantom blinked, confused. What trickery was this? But Patrick's gaze was calm, his expression benevolent. Two pale hands cupped their opposite elbows loosely.
Slowly, the Phantom lifted an arm in Sarah's direction. “But Sahrah is a woman.”
“Um. Yes.”
“A lovely woman.”
“Yes, very.”
The Phantom's eyes narrowed. “But you do not desire her?”
“That's right.” Patrick nodded.
There was a long pause.
The Phantom started to chuckle, but stopped at Patrick's annoyed expression. “You are surely jesting!”
“I am surely not. Look, Sarah and I...” Patrick looked at the door for a moment, his eyes softening. Then they hardened, shooting back to the Phantom. “I just don't see her that way.”
“But why ever not? Are you deficient? Are you impotent?” Another thought occurred to him, too genius not to be spoken. “Are you secretly a woman?”
Of his theories, the Phantom liked the last idea the best. Patrick would make a lovely bride. The Phantom reached his hands out, flattening both palms over Patrick's flat chest.
“No, I'm not-quit touching me!”
Patrick as a bride. It was more than a fascinating idea-it was a brilliant idea. He could see it now: corpse pale skin even paler made against the white fabric of the virgin's gown.
“I said-quit-”
“I'm checking-”
Patrick stopped the Phantom's hand two inches from his final goal-the front of his trousers. “I'm one hundred percent male, okay?!” The yell was piercing and quite woman-like, contradicting his claim.
“Then... are you a homosexual?” the Phantom asked, fascinated. “I thought they burned the last of your kind to the ground centuries ago. Clearly, they have been remiss in their duties.”
“I'm not gay,” Patrick spat. “And besides, that's such a terrible thing to say! And so dated. This is the twenty-first century, Phantom. Get with the times.”
The Phantom was offended. “Hey, I'm hip! I'm down!” He paused, then bragged, “I even have an exclusive membership to the Book of Faces.”
The dark anger on his face shifted to a vague bewilderment. “You mean Facebook.”
“No, I mean the Book of Faces,” the Phantom corrected, pleased to instruct others in the more noble arts. “It's this very hip, very edgy fringe group that specializes in carving off the faces of their adversaries and pressing them into the Livre de Visages. Like flowers! It preserves them very well.”
A moment passed in complete silence.
Patrick's eyes were huge. “I am so sorry I asked,” he murmured. The boy turned around stiffly and walked out of the room, his shoulders stiff.
The Phantom poked his head out of the door, peering down the hallway after him. “It has an exclusive membership!” the Phantom called out, oddly hurt. “They only let in the best of the best!”
Rather than turning around to praise the Phantom for his skill (for he had much skill, so much skill that the Praetor of the Book of Faces killed himself in the off-chance that the Phantom might choose to carve off his face), the boy suddenly started to run instead, ducking down a hallway and out of sight. The Phantom had seen doomed souls fleeing from the gaping maws of the hounds of hell at a pace only half of Patrick's gait.
The Phantom glanced around the room for a moment, just in case. As he thought, there were no hell hounds.
But that left an unanswered question: what was Patrick running from?
“Perhaps he remembered that he had some place to be,” the Phantom mused. Yes, of course. That had to be it.
Sarah skipped down the hall, two drinks in hand. “Pat, I got your-” She blinked at the empty room.
Her small, female brain clicked and groaned under the effort of thoughts. She turned to him suddenly, her eyes narrowed and her mouth flattened in a thin line.
“No big D, right? He was a total downer.” Who would look lovely in a dress.
“Phantom,” she growled, slamming him into the door. “What. Did. You. Do?”
“Geez, someone's on her period.” Her angry gaze turned deadly. His leg exploded in pain. “OW! My shin!”
She stalked away, her hair swishing violently over her shoulder.
The Phantom considered reviewing that no 'hell hounds' conclusion because... well, there was a joke in there somewhere, and it ended with 'bitch'.
TWO
Patrick had nightmares about the Book of Faces for weeks. Fucking Phantom, he thought angrily, but almost immediately took the thought back. Thinking of the Phantom didn't bring the Phantom around as quickly as speaking about him, but Patrick didn't want to test his luck, especially after regaining some element of normalcy in his workday.
Patrick got up from his chair, stretching his legs. He made a decision quickly and crossed the office floor.
“Hey, Amir,” he called out, smiling reflexively once he had his coworker in sight.
Amir spun his chair around to face Patrick. “S'up!” The senior writer's glasses were perched upside down on the very end of his nose, and he was slouching deeply in his chair, deep enough to fall off. All of that wasn't enough to distract Patrick from the sight of Jake's response to the greeting-a full body flinch, a hostile scowl, and a hurried attempt at a neutral face.
Patrick dragged his eyes back to Amir. “About that article idea I sent you...”
The rest of his query was drowned out by the sound of a stampede.
At the other end of the office, Caldwell burst from one of the hallways, red and panting. He weaved in and around the desks quickly, even vaulting over one chair. Quick on his heels were at least twenty people-some laughing, some yelling, some scowling at the illustrator's back. Caldwell's own face was a mixture of glee and fear.
Finally, Josh overtook him, clapping him on the back. Caldwell came to a slow stop, gasping for air. The crowd followed his example, creating a semi-circle around Caldwell and Josh as they all tried to catch their breath. Murph broke the pattern, standing in front of the semi-circle as he tried to call for some order.
“Okay, next round people!”
“What the hell...” Patrick muttered musingly.
Unable to speak, Caldwell just patted Josh on the shoulder and collapsed into a chair not too far away from Patrick, putting his head down on the table. Josh, on the other hand, looked smug, and was provoking the crowd with 'bring it on' gestures.
“And everyone start texting... now!” Murph was staring at his cell. Suddenly, he lifted a hand with stop watch swinging from it. “Okay! Tabletop. Chug. Cartwheel. Josh, go!”
Josh started darting around, looking for something. The crowd watched, some jeering. Josh found a pitcher of lemonade on an intern's desk and, with no hesitation at all, started to drink it all down. His atypical action was, predictably, accompanied by a chant consisting of 'chug, chug, chug!'
“What the freak?” Amir straightened up in his chair, flipping his glasses back over. “Jake...?”
“No clue,” Jake said quietly. He raised his voice and called out, “Hey Vin? What the hell, man?”
On the outer edge of the crowd was Vinny with a camcorder. He looked over his shoulder and edged closer to them, careful not to move the camera's focus from a chugging Josh.
“Hey, guys. It's, well... it's sorta this... improv/truth or dare/tag... thing. With texting as prompts.” Vinny sighed and shook his head. “Don't ask me the rules. Josh thought it up. If you ask me, I think someone swapped his decaf with the good stuff this morning.”
“And you're taping it, why exactly?” Jake probed, frowning.
“...” Vinny suddenly had that cagey, guilty look of Peeping Toms and voyeurs everywhere. His hands flexed agitatedly on his camcorder. “Don't judge me.”
Josh slammed down the empty pitcher with a triumphant yell, then finished off with an awkward, but successful cartwheel. He turned slightly green when he landed, a hand clutching his stomach. Despite that, he valiantly started to run when Murph ordered it-presumably to start the 'tag' portion of the game, Patrick guessed as he backed up out of their way. The cheering, laughing group started racing after him, their hands reaching out to touch.
But before Josh could get very far (barely past Jake's desk, even), the Phantom was there, sticking his foot out. Josh tripped and went down hard. The crowd came to an abrupt and confusing stop, startled by the interference.
Not that the Phantom noticed. “Me next, me next!”
“Uh, alrighty then!” His frown easing, Murph lifted his cell. “Text, now!” A few seconds later, “And the first three texts are... Go right. Marionette. Chick-flick moment.” He clicked the button on the stop watch. “Aaaaand go!”
“Okay!” The Phantom looked left and right real quick, calculating, and then lunged toward Patrick, who was to his right. An iron-like grip folded over his wrists. Patrick yelped as he was suddenly dragged to his toes and spun, like he was nothing more than a doll. Or a marionette.
As if he wasn't dizzy enough, Patrick was bent backwards, one of the Phantom's hands grinding Patrick's wrists together while the other supported his spine. Patrick struggled for balance, and had none. And then the Phantom leaned in, his mask growing closer and closer, the gleaming whiteness of it possessing all of Patrick's visual field-that, and those intense eyes.
His nose grazed the mask. Pressure fell on his lips. Patrick's mind went numb.
There was silence. Then there was an explosion of applause.
Patrick was placed back on his feet and shoved back to the desks. He stumbled slightly on weak knees, turning around just in time to see the Phantom bowing to his audience.
“Okay,” Murph said with a chuckle. “Now, run!”
“Haha! I shall remain victorious!” And thus the Phantom hurled himself through the office, cackling madly as a crowd of shouting and cheering coworkers ran after him, each vying to be the first to tag him out. Josh stubbornly limped after them, a hand clamped over his bleeding nose.
Patrick slowly pivoted to his coworkers, willing that last scene to have been a product of his overactive imagination, but Amir and Jake were staring up at him, eyes wide.
There was a long, awkward silence.
Jake cracked first, his eyes glinting with morbid fascination. “How was it?”
Patrick was quiet for a minute. “I think I felt tongue.”
Oh God.
He was definitely not going to get any work done today.
THREE
No surprise-Patrick didn't get any work done. He daydreamed, he agonized, he remembered. He was about to go nuts for sure. And there was only one person in the world he could talk to that could possibly make things better.
The workday ended before Patrick could corner him, but, thankfully, it was fairly easy to find the Phantom in the office. All one needed to do was follow the flickering lights.
The Phantom was in the office kitchen.
Patrick bustled into the area quickly, not bothering to announce his presence. “Hey, Phantom. Hi.” He braced his hands on the counter that the Phantom was working on, paling slightly when he realized that, whatever the Phantom was slicing through? It was red, raw-looking, and bleeding a little. But that wasn't enough to break him. “I need... well, I need to talk to you. For closure! About closure. Um.” He paused, reconsidering his strategy, but then just plunged into the mess. “You see, that kiss earlier today-I understand you were under a time limit and desperate, but-”
“You smelled like pork rinds and fresh figs,” the masked man said quietly. He continued to slice even, meticulous slabs off of the oozing piece of meat. “It's a very pleasant smell.”
Patrick blinked rapidly at the Phantom's profile. “Okay.” Realizing reciprocity was the gateway to understanding, he smiled. “And you! You smelled like...” Patrick's smile dimmed as he recalled. “A burn ward and the tears of a thousand infants.”
The Phantom turned, making a delighted noise. “Thank you, that's so kind of you to notice!” There was an awkward pause. The Phantom gestured between the two of them with the knife. “So, we cool?”
“Yes. Yes, of course!” Patrick was relieved. His eyes dropped down to the clean bit of counter near him. He traced a circular burn mark on the surface with his fingers. “It was just a dare and all, I get it. No harm, no foul. Nothing more to it than that-” He looked up and his mouth slammed shut, because he just realized that the Phantom had lost the knife and regained a bat. That the Phantom was no longer in front of him, but skulking behind him, a heavy breath rattling through the small mouth hole of his mask.
The Phantom swung. There was a hollow metal clunk and a fireflash of pain, and, dazed, Patrick hit the floor with his knees. And then there complete and utter blackness, and nothing more.
FOUR
Patrick woke up slowly, grimacing at his throbbing head. It felt like Kobe was warming up for practice in his skull, using his brain as a basketball. He tried to reach up and grab at the pain, but the motion was immediately restrained. He opened up his eyes, narrowing his wavering vision on the very pink plastic ties that trapped his wrists to the hard wooden chair.
There was no mystery where he was: he was in the Phantom's catacombs. Seated across from him was his host. The other man was leaning over a chessboard, replacing all of the figures to their correct positions. He seemed very focused on the task.
“You could have just asked,” Patrick complained. Again. The Phantom let out a 'hm', but otherwise made no comment. Patrick struggled with his bondage to no avail. Trying the only other alternative, he asked, “Let me go?”
The Phantom's hands froze over his chess pieces. He lifted his head slowly, dark and intense eyes gleaming behind the mask. Patrick's lungs froze. “Never,” the Phantom breathed.
Patrick's head buzzed wildly, and not just because he just took a bat to the head. He was unable to look away from the Phantom's devouring gaze. He could barely blink.
For all of his social faux pas, for all of his awkwardness, for all his mistakes, the man in front of him wasn't just a man in a mask-he was an ancient being with unfathomable powers, unknowable motivations, and unspeakable tastes. He was frightening, he was terrible, and all those other things Patrick knew about him? His crappy chess game, his fear of heights, his disdain for the color mauve... they all meant nothing because they were mere grains of sand in the beach that was the Phantom's personality.
A very, very scary beach that might possibly kill him one day over a girl he no longer had feelings for.
Patrick's life? Yeah, it officially sucked.
Suddenly, the Phantom blinked. The heaviness disappeared immediately.
“Here, you go first,” he chirped solicitously, spinning the board so that Patrick had the white pieces.
Patrick let out a sigh, rotating his wrists once. He straightened up in his uncomfortable seat, squinting at the chess board. “Pawn to E4,” he decided.
The Phantom clapped his hands gleefully. “Ah, yes... the opening gambit.” He reached over, plucking the correct piece from it's place and moving it to the right square. Settling back into his own chair, the Phantom stared contemplatively at the game, sussing out his own moves while tapping his jaw with one finger.
Rolling his head back and scowling at the ceiling, Patrick steeled his jaw. Ancient being or not, this was the final straw-he just had to talk the Phantom into a gentler method of kidnapping. His insurance didn't cover head injuries.
But, more importantly, there was that other thing he desperately needed to address...
“Phantom, why am I in a dress?”
THE END