Part Two

-x-x-x-

Rage and violence, Tom decided, are the keys to solving any of life’s problems.

“Dude, look at him go!”

“That was sick!”

“Did you see that one!”

“He’s got like… a 30 critical hit combo!”

“Forty two,” Tom corrected, firing the gun again. “Forty three…”

The little brigade “Wow!”-ed and “Awesome!”-ed in awe at Tom’s impressive record.

The fame really doesn’t hurt matters either, he thought, grinning as he reloaded his gun.

Sure, they had a collective age of around 35, but for this one moment in their short lives, Tom was their dark hero, master in the art of head shots and zombie massacres.

Kids need their heroes, Tom rationalized his possibly inappropriate actions (possibly being the key word there). Besides, I’m not the one who put the Resident Evil machine in the middle of a Chuck E. Cheese. Really, the owners of this place should be sued.

Tom might have been satisfied to revel in his god-like status, completely oblivious to all but his fan group and the army of zombies, for the rest of the day, until fate (in the form of mild auditory delusions) intervened.

“Nate!”

What? He’s here! Tom immediately thought, focusing in to try and catch the voice again.

“Mom, I told you! I already ate! I wanna go back and watch the awesome killer dude!” whined one of his admirers with the same voice that had just called out Nate’s name.

Just a stupid mistake…

Behind him, his fans booed as he took damage from an undead scourge.

Now look what you went and did, he scolded himself. Besides, it’s not like you want to see him anyway. Focus on those zombie S.O.B.’s! Remember: rage, anger, violence, and a lot of fucking bullets!

“I can’t believe he missed that one!”

“Yeah, it was right out there in the open.”

“I guess it’s just Nate, you know? Like karma, or something. Even people that good have to miss sometime.”

Tom faltered again, missing the enemy’s head by miles as he flinched at the sound of Nate’s name.

“There you guys are!” cried a new, breathless voice. “I’ve been looking all over for you!”

“Where were you?”

“Yeah, you’re totally Nate. You missed it completely! This guy had a kick-ass combo. He’s a maniac!”

“You should have seen him when he opened the Nate and the zombies were like… everywhere! And he didn’t even flinch! He just shot them down, one by one! It was sooooo sick!”

“Doesn’t look like he’s doing so Nate to me. I could do better than that.”

What. The. Fuck. Tom mentally screamed. Isn’t this just absolutely perfect? Now I’m hearing things.

“At this Nate he’s gonna die.”

“No he’s not, just Nate a minute. He’ll come back.”

“I don’t think so, dude. Listen to Natie, he’s going to die.”

“Ouch, that one must have hurt him.”

“Oo, he really fell for the Nate on that one. Everyone knows there’s always a zombie ready to jump out at you near all of the best items.”

“In his defense, he really could have used that first-aid spray.”

“He’s got a Nate with destiny now. Right around this corner’s three zombie-leech monsters. He’s screwed.”

“I Nate those things.”

Tom died a gruesome and extremely painful death involving the two leech monsters he had not managed to kill and a small army of tiny leeches.

Dying, Tom found, was not even in the very smallest way a key to solving life’s problems. In fact, he found it to be a highway to even more trouble as he whipped the plastic gun around and pressed it against one of his grade-school fan boy’s temple, demanding for a token to continue his game.

A few of his more squeamish admires screamed (possibly due more to Tom’s crazed look than any actual fear from the gun itself), but as it turned out, the boy Tom had chosen to threaten was no push over. He prided himself on laughing through the most violent parts of the Saw series as well as having browsed through his father’s extensive Playboy magazine collection, and considered himself to be quite the tough customer.

“No fuckin’ way, dude!” the boy said, throwing in the explanative to make himself sound older. “Sure, you were doing kinda good, but you seriously cracked after you left the sewers. Back off and let a real pro show you how it’s done.”

The boy scoffed and pushed the gun away from his face.

“It was probably just beginner’s luck anyway,” he continued, going for the kill.

“You snot-nosed little brat!” Tom shouted, both insulted and hurt. It had taken countless hours of gaming, along with massive amounts of natural born talent, to get that good at blowing zombies’ brains out. So much for hero… Tom thought, sneering.

“TOM!” a gruff voice that Tom knew very well shouted.

Crap. I’m in trouble now, he thought, feeling a good deal like a kicked puppy.

“What?” he whined, turning to face Jim Crowley with more than a little anxiety.

Strangely enough, the kid he had just threatened said the exact same thing at the exact same time in the exact same tone of voice.

The two Toms looked at each other with equal measures disbelief and pure shock. This was a mistake they would soon regret. Jim was a man who liked having the undivided attention of a kid he was punishing. There were certain things you just weren’t doing right if you were getting ignored, Jim believed. Performing, yelling at kids, sex, etc… it just wasn’t worth it if you didn’t have their full attention. And though the appearance of the second Tom came as just as much of a surprise to him as it was to anyone present, Jim’s paternal, ass-whooping instincts quickly kicked in. He grabbed an ear off of either boy and dragged them, kicking and screaming, back to his booth.

The moment they gained their freedom, both of the boys, undignified and confused out of their small minds, shouted “What the fuck is going on!”, earning them both a sharp smack over the head.

“Watch yer mouth. I thought your mother raised you with better manners than that,” he told the younger Tom.

The older Tom laughed at the younger, thinking that he was immune to Jim’s wrath. He was sorely wrong.

“And you,” Jim continued, turning his stern gaze the elder’s way, “should know better than to be using language like that around kids.”

Like half the kids here couldn’t get in a cussing fight with Nate, for crying out loud, Tom thought, rolling his eyes.

“Whatever,” he said, just really not reeling up to a lecture. “Who’s the brat?”

“Hey! Watch who you’re calling a brat, dork!” the younger Tom said, punching the other Tom sharply in the ribs.

“Tom…” Jim threatened, turning his evil eye back on the kid before answering the elder’s question. “This ‘brat’ is my grandson. I told ya I had a grandkid named Tom.”

“Oh, right,” Tom said, vaguely remembering said situation.

“Who’s he, gramps?” the younger Tom asked, a bit put off that the grown-ups were talking about him like he wasn’t even there.

“One of the kids who works with me,” Jim told him. “I told ya I worked with a kid named Tom.”

“Oh, right,” Tom said, not even vaguely remembering said situation.

“Alright, now that we’re all nice and acquainted, would someone care to tell me just what you two numbskulls were at over there?” Jim said, impatient to get down to business.

“He was trying to take my tokens away from me because he was mad that he sucks at Resident Evil!” the younger started, quickly to be interrupted by the older.

“I was not, I was just kindly asking for one token to continue my game because somebody kept distracting me while I was playing, causing my untimely and violent death!”

“And just how did I cause your death! Because if you ask me, or anyone who has eyes, you’d hear that you died because you wasted all your ammo on the weaker enemies! Any decent Resident Evil fan knows that the handgun is way better for taking out the leeches.”

“I was only using the shotgun because you all distracted me and I accidently switched to it!”

“Will you two be quiet!” Jim roared. “I swear I’m about ready to knock both of you into next week!”

“Sorry, sir,” both boys obediently apologized.

“Now, I want you two to apologize to each other,” Jim ordered.

“What?”

“There’s no way I’m apologizing for-“

"NOW!” Jim yelled, pointing a finger at them. “Apologize or I’ll take a belt to both of your sorry hides.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” the older Tom said, rolling his eyes at the childish treatment.

“Shut up, you idiot!” the younger Tom, who possessed a greater sense of fear (as well as self-preservation) ordered. “I’m sorry I said you sucked.”

The older Tom sighed, “I’m sorry I threatened you with a gun.”

“Good,” Jim said. “Tom….er, Tom Crowley, you’re free to go. Have fun. And I don’t want to hear you getting into any more fights, you hear me?”

“Yes, sir!” the boy said, dashing off.

“And you,” Jim continued. “Get back over here!”

Tom, who was already half way to the door at this point, flinched and turned.

“I’m not your kid and you’re not my boss… currently. I don’t have to listen to you,” Tom said, fully aware that if not for his brilliant acting skills, that would have sounded about as threatening as a mouse. “I’m adopting you, because it’s obvious that whoever’s in charge of your sorry ass isn’t doing a very good job,” Jim shot. “Now get back over here.”

“No!” Tom shouted daringly, though much like a preteen girl, as he turned to the door.

“Tom…” Jim growled.

“Fine! I’m coming! I’m coming already!”

As Tom slunk over to the booth, shoulders hunched and hands shoved in his pockets, Jim was filled with a grim sort of satisfaction. No one messes with James Crowley.

“What do you want?” Tom asked sullenly.

“Sit down, kid,” he commanded.

Tom obediently slid into the booth opposite of Jim.

“Now, what the hell are you doing here?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Tom answered, leaning his head against his fist and pointedly looking away from Jim.

“You can sit at this table the whole damn day if you so please,” Jim told him curtly.

“I told you, I’m not your kid. You can’t order me around like that!” Tom cried.

“Tom…” Jim threatened again. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

“I just wanted to play the game, alright? I was headed to my apartment when I passed by here. It was cold, and I remembered they had the most recent arcade version of Resident Evil,” he explained. “I was just going to stay long enough to warm myself up and play a few rounds.”

“You kids and your games. I’ll never understand it…”

“What are you doing here?” Tom asked.

“It’s Tom’s birthday,” Jim said, “And he wanted to come to this… godforsaken hellhole.”

Tom had to laugh. “Sounds like you’re having tons of fun.”

“Oh, yeah. Let me tell you, between the regal entertainment over there,” he said, his voice drenched in bitter sarcasm as he jabbed his finger towards the stage where the animatronics mouse and company sang and danced, “and the chorus of all the little angels over there,” he pointed to the game area where children of all ages were running about like they’d all forgotten to take their Ritalin, screaming like diminutive banshees as they played., “I’m having a grand time. It’s fucking fabulous, Tom. I don’t know why we don’t do it more often.”

“Oodles of joy, then,” Tom snickered.

“Bah!” Jim spat, glaring angrily at every despicable trait he could find.

“Hey, do you think they’d let me order pizza without one of those stamp things on my hand? Tom asked, looking over at the pizza counter.

“Why didn’t you get one when you came in?” Jim asked, more than slightly suspicious and rather unwilling to answer Tom.

“Because I kind of snuck in…” Tom admitted sheepishly.

Jim shook his head in disbelief, shocked, though he had half expected it.

“A twenty five year old man sneaks into a Chuck E. Cheese, gets into a fight with a nine year old, and his excuse is that he wanted to play the games,” Jim said slowly, shaking his head. “Jesus, Tom.”

“I’m twenty six, actually.”

Jim shot him a withering look.

“Point stands. You sound like a pedophile, you numbskull.”

“But I really just wanted to play the games!” Tom cried defensively, as if the implication had only just occurred to him as Jim pointed it out. “You believe me, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but only because I know you’re a fucking nut job,” Jim told him.

“Hey, didn’t you just get on to me for cussing in front of children?” Tom asked, hurt.

“Yeah, well, I’m older than you. I can do whatever the hell I want. Get over it,” Jim replied. “Anyways, why’d you sneak in? All you would have had to do was get your hand stamped and you could have gotten your own pizza.”

“I didn’t think they’d let me in without a kid!” Tom admitted. “I mean, the whole pedophile thing occurred to me as possibly coming up as an issue then.”

“You could have lied and said you were meeting someone. I know you well enough to know you could have pulled that one off with ease,” Jim replied, as if it was the most obvious answer in the world.

A sore look crossed over Tom’s face then. He crossed his arms childishly in front of him and quite literally pouted down at the empty pizza pan sitting on the table.

“What?” Jim asked. “I thought it was a compliment.”

“No, that’s not it,” he said, pressing his forehead down on onto the palm of his head as his elbow rested on the table. “You just reminded me of why I was pissed off in the first place.”

“What, your little sweetheart dump your sorry ass and the big bad bully beat you up?” Jim mocked, rather unsympathetically.

“Yes, actually,” Tom shot up at him. “I did get dumped. Oh, and then some big, bad old guy beat me up! You know, I really hadn’t looked at it that way, but thanks! I really needed that fresh outlook on my life to make it just that much better of a day. Nothing says joy like high school, right?”

“…Are you kiddin’ me?” Jim asked disbelievingly.

“Yeah. Ha, ha. How’d you ever guess?” Tom replied, bitterly sarcastic, even for him.

“Not old what’s-‘er-name!” Jim cried, recalling the various scattered tales he’d heard about the adorable blond Tom had been dating for longer than he could ever recall Tom dating someone.

Tom glared sordidly down at the table.

“Yeah, well…” he shrugged, attempting to play it off nonchalant, but his eyes gave him away when the table caught fire under his stare.

“But why?” Jim asked, unable to contain his curiosity. “I mean, you two seemed like you had it going! I can’t ever once remember you complaining about what’s-‘er-name like you did with all of those other broads. And you…”

Jim wanted to say something about how much happier Tom had seemed these past few months, but, given the situation, he thought it might be inappropriate.

“What I mean to say is, you two were together for so long,” Jim said, recovering. “What happened?”

Tom shrugged angrily again.

“Who fucking knows? I… and…” Tom struggled angrily to logically justify anything that had happened that morning. “She hated coffee!”

“Watch the language,” Jim warned. “But, damn! Hated coffee? How can you hate coffee? Maybe it’s a good thing you two broke it off.”

“How about you get over here on this side of the table and I’ll tell you you’re better off?” Tom suggested, sulking again and feeling sorry for himself.

“Fair enough,” Jim said, backing off a bit, but his face suddenly lit up. “Hey! Are you finally going to tell me her name!”

Tom put a hand to his head, weary of the name echoing in his head.

“No.”

-x-x-x-

Nate was Christmas shopping, and he was enjoying it very fucking much, thank you. In the two hours since he’d left T… the Starbucks, he had managed to knock out all of his immediate family, half of his grandparents, and a third of his numerous nieces and nephews. It was a great day for shopping. Fucking fabulous, actually. So what if it was a little crowded due to the fact that he’d gotten distracted by forces of idiocracy stronger than he could control? So what if he was a little lost? The sun was shining and it was warming up. So what if his nose was running? That was just because it was cold, because he wasn’t upset in the least.

Nate struggled to find something familiar as he walked the commerce filled city streets. As much as he was enjoying himself, not knowing where he was made him more than a little anxious. And, to make things all the more shit—interesting, Nate found himself surrounded by a massive crowd of people who couldn’t be any les than 6 feet tall.

“What,” Nate muttered, his thoughts turning bitter despite his best efforts to maintain a good mood, “did they host some kind of giants’ convention today!”

As he tried to peer around a particularly tall, gaunt man wearing (believe it or not) a top hat, his thoughts began to stray down paths he didn’t want them to take.

If he was here, he wouldn’t have to look at the street signs. He’d just say ‘Come on, Nate. This way!’ and there we’d be, right back home, and then… what in the hell am I thinking! Nate demanded to know of himself, finally putting an end to his treacherous line of thinking. I don’t need his help! I’m even better off without him slowing me down for idiotic, pointless things like coffee breaks!

Unfortunately, telling himself he didn’t need help, be it Tom’s or no, did not get him any closer to his apartment. Also to Nate’s misfortune, he was one of those people who would rather drive through all nine circles of hell than ask for directions. He still might have had some hope, though, of getting home despite these flaws, if not for his utter inability to read maps. Knowing and having admitted this to himself in advance, he didn’t waste his money buying a map. Besides, he rationalized, what good was a new map when he had three perfectly good ones at home?

After another fifteen minute’s blind wandering in search of a familiar landmark, Nate gave up (or, as he preferred to put it, simply decided to continue his Christmas shopping without worrying himself over his exact location) and went into the nearest department store.

The store was called Fleece Emporium, or something equally trite, and carried nothing but products made entirely of fleece, the least disturbing of which were rows upon rows of fleece blankets in various sizes and prints. Over al, it was probably a waste of time to browse through this store. He wasn’t planning on buying anyone a toasty cover for Christmas.

Then again…

Giving in to the thought of cheap, easy, and universal gifts he could give to the relatives he was less acquainted with as well as some of his office co-workers, Nate began browsing the store.

“Welcome to Fleece Emporium! Us there anything I could help you with today?” asked an overly cheery girl with auburn hair dressed up like an elf… or possibly a female version of Santa. He’d never quite figured out the difference between the two besides the presence of pointed ears, and he couldn’t see the girl’s ears at all due to a red Santa hot made (no doubt) of fleece that was more than a little too big for her head, even with all the augmentation she’d done to her hair. The hat wasn’t the only thing she wore that was inappropriately sized. Her coat (which also looked very fleecy) could have fit maybe three of her inside, if he had to guess. Her pants, on the other hand, did not appear to be made of fleece at all and consequentially fit her rather well, or so he deduced from what little of her legs he could see from under the great Santa/elf coat.

“No, thanks,” he said, holding back his snickers.

“Alright then, just holler if you need anything!” she replied, still extremely cheery. With as skip and a hop she left him be.

Nate began browsing through the store’s extensive (and often rather unique) selection of blankets, jackets, toboggans, mittens, and scarves. Just about anything that you could possibly imagine being made of fleece was present in the peculiar store, including fleece toilet covers and a black fleece ski mask with a bull’s eye in the middle of the forehead with the words “AIM HERE, COPPERS!” woven above it.

He might have been content to stall in the Fleece Emporium until he’d finally gathered up the will to ask for directions, but fate (in the form of a strange blanket and unexplained appearance of a puddle of water) intervened.

With a growing appreciation for the many textures of fleece, Nate ran his hands over a box of bargain blankets, on sale for only $7.99! That was when his eyes were drawn to one very special blanket that would alter the course of his holiday permanently.

What the hell kind of a messed up blanket is this? He wondered as he picked up the blanket. Cute little rain clouds with happy smiley faces plastered all over them? How does that even make sense! What kind of people does it take to come up with this crap?

The answer, he found, came immediately to mind.

Crazy people, he thought, like Tom, who don’t live in the real world with the rest of us. People who don’t realize that when the sun’s up, you’re supposed to wake up and who think they’re going to die if they don’t have coffee first thing in the morning. I bet they don’t even celebrate Christmas, those bastards.

Nate momentarily considered burning the blanket as an effigy of his fiery hatred for all of the crazy people in the world, but then a better idea came to mind. He’d give the blanket to Tom for Christmas! It was perfect. Tom would probably feel connected to his crazy brethren once he received it. Maybe all of the crazies with stupid, nonsensical blankets would congregate together (only after they woke up leisurely around 2 and had a communal coffee break first, of course) and blast off together for Saturn, or whatever. And, of course, he’d load the damned thing down with itching powder before he gave it to Tom.

Thoughts of petty vengeance firmly in mind, Nate headed towards the register, eager to being his hunt for a prank store to pick up some sneezing powder… or itching powder… or both! He strutted, full of pride and power, down the aisled, laughing manically to himself.

Due to his short stature, no one could see him as he strutted, leading one particularly impressionable shop girl dressed as a frumpy female Santa to wonder if the store she worked for just so happened to be haunted by poltergeists. Of course, when the laughter was suddenly replaced with a short scream and a loud “THWACK!” sort of sound, she put her radical conclusions aside and came to much more logical conclusions, ones that lead her to search the store until she came across a petite blond boy passed out on the floor right on top of a large puddle. It wasn’t raining and the store wasn’t due for a cleaning until the weekend, but neither of these facts bothered the girl for long due to the much greater dilemma she found on her hands: Just what was she supposed to do now?

Author's Notes: Mildly late, I know, but hopefully you still got some unseasonal laughs out of it. The next chapter won't be quite so far off, I promise.