INT. RAPTURE’S PEW – NIGHT

I  contain  nothing     ( … )     but  the  replay.

[loathsomedogs]

#LOATHSOMEDOGS:     I  MAY  BE  MAD,   GOD-SEIZED,   BUT  I  WILL  FEAST.    PRIVATE  PORTRAYAL  OF  CORRUPTLY  DEVOTED  MUSES.   LOW  ACTIVITY.   TWENTY1+  ONLY.   VIEWER  DISCRETION  ADVISED.   AS  DIRECTED  BY  KATY.

01.   GUIDELINES.     02.   CAST.     03.   PROMPTS.

[1dentifie]

DATA SOURCE, spotify wrapped. USER, @loathsomedogs ﹕ talia. USER COMMENTS, i still don't know who you are.

back remains turned away from suspiciously—sharp gaze, thumbing through folders & papers holding such scientific jargon that even p.a.m. would overheat at. his head hurts already & it's only been five minutes. but these papers hold valuable intel, & so the show must go on. gone are usual sunglasses & jet—black wig, giving unnerving sense of vulnerability. even with one—piece jumpsuit [white & pristine & perfect, like every other object — living beings included — in this purgatory of wannabe doctor frankensteins] covering body from head to toe & face therefore hidden: god, he feels exposed.

for short moment, thoughts revolve ‘round mind that [oh, he almost hurls] elder maxson would be proud of, with his for the brotherhood! teachings: for the railroad. for the railroad. i’m doing this for the railroad. he barely spares a glance over his shoulder, keeping voice low & exhausted to give impression of worker who has done his duty too long with no gain. [which, well… isn’t so far off, actually.] " just doing my job, ma’am. "

[loathsomedogs]

A single pore is a tricky thing,   fortunately,   placed within the fruitful plains of metaphor.     Here,   it doesn’t braid through grass,   nor plant in gummy mud.     No,   you haven’t seen that surface for an age that is both too long and not long enough.     What you really miss is the sun.     Its raw skin properties:   nothing cleanses more than a hurt.     You are so comfortable here.     In place of dirt and growth,   there is the paint-smooth sponge of corridor walls.     There is him,   clad in a rubber one-piece.     A stray bullet point jeopardising the step-by-step approach vital to the mission outline.     Dust-dot in a sea of mould.     Your scope cannot focus,   properly,   on such a minor inconvenience.     And it is inconvenient.     No matter.     Your mission reduces you to a verb—to resolve—and he is no exception.     Unsmiling gaze roving from top to bottom.     A flick over white,   and white,   and white.     ‘   Your job which,   right now,   involves addressing me correctly and,   as you know,   facing me properly.   ’     And let me feast upon the glassy nothing behind his visor.     So comfortable,   without a speck of desert to draw you out.     To wrest a petri-dish inevitability from your face.     Your pores.     It would brush against the soft hairs there.     It is brushing against the soft hairs there,   only you do not know.     You merely refuse to balk.     ‘   Where are you stationed?     Take me there.   ’

[handspike]

@loathsomedogs said, “just  me  and  you.”

she  steps  over  the  empty  shells.  there's  so  many  of  them  scattered,  they  still  clink  underfoot.  there  is  only  the  unclean  path  to  tread  towards  him.  no  matter  where  she  walks,  there  are  the  remains  of  the  firefight.

sadie  skirts  around  the  pool  of  blood.  she's  peppered  with  beads  of  sanguine.  still,  it  sticks.  uncomfortably  to  collar,  to  skin.  to  places  she  can't  see.  (she'll  stand  under  showerhead  until  the  water  runs  ice  cold,  and  she  won't  flinch,  she'll  rub  at  her  skin  until  she  turns  bright  pink.)

she  doesn't  remember  if  he  reached,  or  she  did,  hands  clasp,  assistance  in  her  approach  to  step  over  the  body,  their  palms  clasp  together  for  only  a  moment.  she  is  quick  to  let  go,  grains  of  sand  slipping  through  her  fingers.  forward,  forward  motion.  like  a  shark,  she  can  detect  a  specimen  living  still.  the  breathing  is  ragged.  he  wasn't  dead  yet,  but  he  soon  would  be. 

it's  not  over  yet,  but  her  clip  is  empty.  there  is  mercy  is  the  crush  of  a  windpipe,  but  her  back  straightens.  better  to  let  him  simply  bleed. 

pretty  words,  they  almost  could  sound  like  an  oath  in  the  right  light,  and  she  looks  at  nick,  really  looks  at  him,  “alright,”  head  careened  to  the  side,  before  looking  away,  “i'll  go  out  with  you.”

[loathsomedogs]

There is something of Eden in the grassroots of this bloodline.     Something senseless here,   parsed cleanly only by her steady foot,   like fly-legs stepping through the wrinkles of a sleeping lip.     A rib-sharpened tooth and an absent god,   hand-in-hand,   and no eye can cleave them apart.     Unlike the worm-fingered reach of the parasite in your heart,   poking through and weltering.     (RE)CLAIM THE HUNGER.     It spotlights her hand in yours,   and then the thin gloss of her eye,   and then the breath from an undead mouth,   fogging the black leather of your shoes.     No witnesses.     You aren’t here to find the door.     (RE)CLAIM THE HUNGER.     This imperative cannot conceptualise its loss,   that a stomach rumbles elsewhere.     That the sentence,   and he takes,   could cheaply metastasise into,   and he takes   …   again,   when you gave nothing,   and found nothing,   and sensed nothing.     And so,   burrowing into his curtain-rack rasps,   you claim.     ‘   Does your mother ask for post-cards?   ’     Pert with the implication of a punchline without any of the humour therein.     Of a well-placed heavy octave,   ankle-low to pet a lullaby into the lain man’s flattened ear as he counts down his penultimate pulses.     Hands clutch desperately to catch and keep it within.     It will be this one,   no,   it is that one.     Nick eyes a frayed inch of flesh.     ‘   That would need no signature   …   but I suppose I should still offer mine to her.     Souvenirs for the mantle,   no?   ’

[janedoez]

i’ll stay. ― ( ACCEPTING! ) ↬ @loathsomedogs . . . from nick .

❝  i didn't ask you to.  ❞ casual. cool. as if they were talking about the weather, substitute the hum of the fluorescents for the patter of rain. this is not the end of the road for her. there is a doorknob to rest her hand on, somewhere else to go. he wants to come with her. he always seems to want to come with her.

maybe it's less the whim of him and more the whim of the world. he's there when she's cold with a jacket to borrow. a guardian angel, depending on the light he's standing in. still, calamity can't imagine any higher power worth its salt would waste their time looking out for her. hence her belief that he must be a side effect of that feeling she spends all her time burying, the unavoidable belief that something bad is going to happen. if not now . . . no, not now.

a polite smile. fear can make even the most feral of dogs tuck their tails between their legs.

❝  have a stellar night.  ❞ the doorknob screams as it's turned, so she shows another row of teeth. ❝  ― and don't take this hard. 'm sure i'll see you again real soon.  ❞

[loathsomedogs]

Thesis statement:   ash is a fine lubricant for doll-innards.     You introduce this through a memory that can yellow into something grotesque.     Take a teething child,   for example,   deep in the bowels of play and house:   daylight peering through the upper basement window,   ripped Christmas wrapper under the stair baseboards.     Outside the realm of adult supervision,   this child will unscrew the head,   and will not blanch at the wound it leaves.     Hard-water to the eye.     Another jaw of teeth behind the first set you have yet to lose.     Your first forays into sadistic tendencies.     It ages with you.     The head is no longer clean.     Open-neck as an ash-tray,   a garden table centrepiece.     Ash collecting like grave-dirt.     Coagulating into organs and ligaments and crust and bone,   for those cinders to flow within a doll’s body.     Like blood.     She is the proof of concept.     Her words barely yoke past you,   over-cooked and flossed,   along your shoulder.     Crumb.     You wouldn’t even lift a finger to flick it away.

Uncomplicated by her bid farewell,   he steps into the path of the doorway,   holds the knob without exerting any force on it.     The scene cannot progress until he fits her within his film frame.     Their name re-contextualised.     Nothing of his face.     All of hers.     ‘   It wasn’t a suggestion.   ’     Your face smooths into something grim,   like a pebbled heart skimming along your forearm vein.     A pulse displaced,   too slim to interlock with your wrist-bone.     Left un-pinched by her,   his gaze hangs over her shoulder,   in the breath-plains.     ‘   That window’s single-glazed.   ’     He clucks his tongue,   squints like he needs to think.     Like he hasn’t already fully chewed,   swallowed,   digested the thought thirty minutes ago.     Before a door knock,   or living the snapshot of a snapshot.     ‘   Give it nine minutes   …   and fifty-six seconds.     If we’re generous.   ’     Which we are,   of course,   even as the knob sweats through his palm.     The door is still open.     And he still does not push it further.     Could anyone say he’s discourteous?     Really.     He taps a finger against the knob,   twice.     The brow-raise is surreptitious.     Lighter timbre.     ‘   Your call.   ’

[handspike]

[  sms  :  tali ✨  ]  i  can't.  idk  how

[  sms  :  tali ✨  ]   idk  who  to  turn  to

[  sms  :  tali ✨  ]  you  don't  have  to  come.  i'm  sorry

[loathsomedogs]

[ SMS ]     You drive a hard bargain.   I do enjoy hearing you say sorry to my face. [ SMS ]     Are you alone? [ SMS ]     Rephrase.   Is there anyone around that would be a bother?

[loathsomedogs]

Q.     IT  CAN  BE  CRUEL,  POETIC  OR  BLIND.   ANSWERED  FOR  TIFFANY  VALENTINE,     @dollsbride.

She is an ode,   the ode to the tow-headed.     To the lilt that plumes,   double-hipped,   around the full breadth of his shoulders;   withdrawn yet purring,   flexed in that skittish feline arch.     Beyond idle hands   /   Upon statued breath.     Paws on bone.     Soft cheek ghosting along tufts of your hair.     Between her teeth is something playful that he does not bend to receive.     Fate,   or justice,   or love.     You know these tributaries.     Every route leads to the same mouth,   the same lake,   the single truth:     death will have retribution.     Cruel it is,   then.     The evening draws to a close.     Thumb-tack lodged in the sky-switch,   electrifying the will of your hand.     Light will not pool within this room.     He approaches her orbit,   stiff-lipped,   even if it will not accept him.     She eludes.     He cannot help but give chase.     ‘   Show me the poetics of   …   self-restraint,   ’     he deadpans,   a delivery teetering along a sardonic edge.     Nail-tap on a parted mouth.     Nick remains stoic.     To emphasise the remark,   he nods toward the torn fabric in his open hands.     A head-tilt,   leading nowhere curious,   everywhere fraught.     ‘   Go on,   I’ll talk you through it.     You must have a favourite knot.   ’

[loathsomedogs]

Q.     UNSENT  TEXT.   ANSWERED  FOR  MONICA  RAMBEAU,     @0hcaptn.

[ SMS, UNSENT ]     I wasn’t meant to find you, was I? [ SMS ]     The stars are beautiful tonight.   You should walk out now and get a good look.

[loathsomedogs]

Q.     DRUNK  TEXT.   ANSWERED FOR DEMETRIA MELIAMNE,     @shadowsrcress.

[ SMS ]     Did you think about me today? [ SMS ]     I remembered your hair and your lipstick and your shoulder strap and your perfume and your eyes.   They’re blue. [ SMS, UNSENT ]     You should join me. [ SMS ]     Where are you?

[loathsomedogs]

Q.     ACCIDENTAL  TEXT.   ANSWERED  FOR  MONICA  RAMBEAU,     @0hcaptn.

[ IMAGE ] [ SMS ]     Doesn’t it look lovely? …   AN HOUR PASSES   … [ SMS ]     Well?   Doesn’t it?

[handspike]

[  draft  :  tali  ✨  ]   i  don't  know  what  to  do.  i  dont  know  i  don't  know  where  i  am

reggie  ives  has  started  sharing  her  location.

[  sms  :  tali  ✨  ]  phone  is  on  2%

[  sms  :  tali  ✨  ]  can  you  come  get  me?

[  sms  :  tali  ✨  ]  please.  &  i'll  explain

[loathsomedogs]

[ SMS ]     Convince me. [ SMS ]     Quickly.   I’d hate to see you and your phone spilled out into sour milk.

[rpmememaker]

Send “✆” for a MORNING text. Send “✉” for a text that WASN’T SENT. Send “☎” for a RUSHED text. Send “⁇” for a DRUNK text. Send “✿” for a SUGGESTIVE text. Send “ø” for a LATE NIGHT text. Send “✘” for a HATEFUL text. Send “#” for a RANDOM text. Send “@” for a SCARED text. Send “&” for a LOVING text. Send “%” for a CURIOUS text. Send “ツ” for an EXCITED text. Send “$” for an ACCIDENTAL text. Send “♀” for a HEARTBREAKING text.

[loathsomedogs]

Q.     [  TXT  ]  IT’S  GETTING  BAD  AGAIN.   ANSWERED  FOR  REGGIE  IVES,     @handspike.

[ SMS, UNSENT ]     Then why aren’t you outside my front door? …   TALIA IS TYPING   … [ SMS ]     Elaborate. [ SMS ]     Tell me where you are. [ SMS ]     And then elaborate.

[lifesucksdrugs-deactivated20251]

@loathsomedogs : NICOLAS BARRA , # SOURCE ; " you're just the grass on a strangers grave , " / " so tell me what's left . "

words resonate in the hollow of asher's chest , where scripture and withdrawal have left their bite marks : pain should be palpable , but the words bounce off of him as if they never connected . like someone flicking the ash off of their open wound . " yep , still pushin' up through concrete . "

nick's presence felt like dusk - quiet , foreboding , and solid . asher was liquid in comparison . " grass always comes back greener , " a lazy , boyish shrug . he tastes the fatalism in nick's words and repels it , almost a challenge . his tongue clicks , amused , " i can't tell if you're flirting with me or taking a swing , though . "

[loathsomedogs]

Here is a side-long stare,   idling just shy of a glare.     Steady.     Following the track marks of old scabs,   cigarette-burned into that red-sliver smile.     The nose-bleed reposing along a cupid’s bow.     Eye-bleed stubbed by the lassitude latent to the smiling cheek.     Confluence carved beneath the chin.     It’s easy to trace.     He hums lowly before—     ‘   Put it up to chance.   ’     In the ensuing silence,   lingering and languid like a half-woken cat,   he counts the coin-flips in the glint of their eye.     Why procure your own blade-ridged dime,   when a sleight of hand,   this hollow light,   would suffice?     The flicks reverberate,   ringing,   as their shoulder-cap lifts without its neck.     String-muzzled.     Bidding farewell to the lie-long nose.     Nick lets his chin lower.     ‘   Heads or tails?   ’

[unlament]

| | @loathsomedogs. ⊱ the sun is just a copper coin i flip in bets against the void.

❝ betting is a losing game half the time, you know, ❞ head turns away from half—open window, elbow resting ‘pon wooden sill & chin cupped within palm. dark strands hang loose, billowing ‘round seated frame as if some accompanying shadowed specter. rising upwards, steps remain softened ‘gainst hardwood floor . . . 𝒶𝓌𝒶𝓎 𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝓈𝓊𝓃𝓁𝒾𝑔𝒽𝓉, 𝒻𝑜𝓇𝓌𝒶𝓇𝒹 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝒹𝑒. ❝ what do you bet on, then? ❞ voice holds neither judgment nor curiosity; simply an inquiry wrapped in existential exhaustion. “yourself? the world? ❞

[loathsomedogs]

Half.     A stitched word for a whole man.     Half of you loses,   as dictated by the natural pattern:   the interlaced fabric of time.     You’re missing that half.     ‘   When the math is wrong.   ’     The angle.     It’s all about leverage.     Carving a knuckle-slot in the immoveable:   in the crook of its heart,   hooked pulse and bone-cradle.     Hinge and latch.     A warm hand on the nape of a drowning man.     ‘   Nothing to do with luck,   ’     he corrects.     Everything to do with want.     ‘   Are you taking a bet on knowing me?   ’

[ohisms]

✱˚｡⋆ ↪ 𝐀 𝐆𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝑻𝑬𝑳𝑬𝑷𝑯𝑶𝑵𝑬 .    (  a  collection  of  texting prompts.  feel free to change phrasing.  potentially mature content within.  )

[ TXT ] : why are you still awake?

[ TXT ] : hey, where did you go?

[ TXT ] : it's getting bad again.

[ TXT ] : guess i'll just sit in bed. alone. by myself.

[ TXT ] : you can't ignore me forever.

[ TXT ] : i can't stop thinking about you.

[ TXT ] : just saw i called you last night. how'd that go?

[ TXT ] : i really need someone right now.

[ TXT ] : we need to make plans asap.

[ TXT ] : have you seen the news?

[ TXT ] : you were blackout drunk.

[ TXT ] : testing to see if you blocked my number...

[ TXT ] : do you know anything about doing stitches?

[ TXT ] : just please let me know you're okay.

[ TXT ] : did you forget we had plans?

[ TXT ] : i know you see my messages, your read receipts are on.

[ TXT ] : meet me at [ location ], it's important.

[ TXT ] : do you need comfort, to vent, or a solution?

[ TXT ] : is there anything i should bring?

[ TXT ] : call me. please, it's important.

[ TXT ] : i can't sleep.

[ TXT ] : have you eaten today?

[ TXT ] : you are always going to be my priority.

[ TXT ] : i haven't seen you around in awhile.

[ TXT ] : i had a dream about you last night.

[ TXT ] : the names are gonna get mean if you don't text me back.

[ TXT ] : at the risk of sounding cliche, what are you wearing?

[ TXT ] : just say the word and i'll drop everything.

[ TXT ] : do you seriously not remember?

[ TXT ] : come to the front door.

[ TXT ] : have you been drinking?

[ TXT ] : how do you feel after last night?

[ TXT ] : are you up? please be up.

[ TXT ] : you looked beautiful today.

[ TXT ] : i have so much to tell you.

[ TXT ] : no one's heard from you. are you okay?

[ TXT ] : who is this?

[ TXT ] : are you taking care of yourself?

[ TXT ] : thought i'd reach out and see how you're doing.

[ TXT ] : i miss the taste of your lips.

[ TXT ] : that kiss was really nice.

[ TXT ] : stop acting so high and mighty.

[ TXT ] : i left my [ item ] at your place.

[ TXT ] : are we still fighting?

[ TXT ] : i need help and i can't go to the hospital.

[ TXT ] : are you thinking about me too?

[ TXT ] : call me, i wanna hear your voice.

[ TXT ] : i don't want to talk to you.

[ TXT ] : what do you have to lose?

[ TXT ] : you don't have to ask, i'm already on my way.

[ TXT ] : i want to take a nap on you.

[ TXT ] : even if you called 6 months later at 3am, i'd answer.

[ TXT ] : what's my name in your phone?

[ TXT ] : how's trying to forget about me going?

[ TXT ] : i have nobody else to ask.

[ TXT ] : what do you mean you're at the hospital??

[ TXT ] : sorry, i think you have the wrong number.

[ TXT ] : good morning! you up yet?

[ TXT ] : do i sense sarcasm in your tone?

[ TXT ] : you start your day at 2pm?

[ TXT ] : you need MY help?

[ TXT ] : stop texting me.

[ TXT ] : i'll leave that up to your imagination.

[ TXT ] : are you asking me to sneak out?

[ TXT ] : when will i see you again?

[ TXT ] : if you come over, i'll order us a pizza.

[ TXT ] : are we ever going to talk about it?

[ TXT ] : can you come get me out of here?

[ TXT ] : you mean like ... a BODY - body?

[ TXT ] : it's just been one thing after another lately.

[ TXT ] : forgiving and forgetting is harder than it sounds.

[ TXT ] : i want your legs wrapped around my head.

[ TXT ] : call me when you wake up.

[ TXT ] : what are you doing that's more important than me?

[ TXT ] : i'm out of town right now.

[loathsomedogs]

INT.     IT  IS  THE  CORNER-SHOP  OF  CORNER-SHOPS——LITTLE  ELSE  BEYOND  A  MAGAZINE  STAND  OF  THUMB-PRINTS  AND  A  HICCUPING  BARE  BULB,  EQUALLY  EXHAUSTED  BY  THE  GRAVEYARD  SHIFT.   A  SPARROW  PECKS  AND  A  RABBIT  NIBBLES.   THESE  TEETH  CROSS  THE  BARRIER  BETWEEN  RUBBER  PLANT  AND  DRY  HUMAN. ANSWERED  FOR  CAMILLE  LAFAYETTE.

    Q.     ARE  YOU  ALWAYS  SO  SUSPICIOUS?

Her question catches your eye first.     A fluttered blink,   wing-flap quick,   and maybe a lash lands under your eye.     It is an unsuspecting question that eases itself therein like salt in your tears.     A duct for irritation.     Nothing in your ear could bristle.     Your eye twitches—twitches is the perfect word for such an imperfect act:   being reduced to an instinct.     This is the first tell.     The second comes when your arms fold over your chest.     Closing what should be open.     God,   how pathetic.     These words flash before your eyes,   bidden,   as your smile shows too many teeth.     ‘   When the occasion calls for it,   ’   she answers softly,   losing the happy slant in her lip to a fast-rolled purse.     A filmic flicker to the unseen camera roll.     Tells come in threes.     Because of this,   Talia squints and leans into her left leg.     Heavy curve to her hip.     An uninvited guest,   @dopplgaenger,   and she isn’t even properly dressed.     ‘   You still haven’t told me what you want.     What can I deduce from that besides   …   lesser intentions?   ’

[lifesucksdrugs-deactivated20251]

@loathsomedogs : TALIA BALFOUR , # SOURCE ; " you're so idiosyncratic , " / " maybe there's nothing left to say . "

there's a twist at the corner of his lips , a half - step to a smile that fails to make the full trip . the syllables of her voice unspool in a manner that falls almost clinical , her glacial precision chewing at his fraying edges . " idiosyncratic , " he echoes back . two people , eye contact serving as assessment of viability . " say ' maladaptive ' next . really commit . " he quips , soft but edged . they orbit each other like two test subjects , her diagnostic gaze of inky fracture - lines reflects something unnamed .

" nothing left to say ? " he questions : people like her don't run out of words . there's a pause , like a manufactured beat in his words . " silence can say more than words . you don't seem like the type to stop mid - evaluation . "

[loathsomedogs]

Really commit,   they say,   like their grasp on vocabulary is anything but bespoke.     A clear pipe-line from petty juvenile arson to white-collar,   red-toothed crime.     I mean really,   in this age,   what could be distinct about being defective?     So,   she snorts at the synonym.     ‘   Did I dream you up one day?   ’     The question lingers for about a second breath,   barely reaching winter-fog,   before she sidles up to his frame to size him up,   height-wise first—establishing a threshold:   how much of me fits within the cratered parts of you—and then circling back to her good-natured appraisal.     In heels,   their eye-lines are almost level,   bubble centre favouring his gravity:   that tongue-heavy mouth.     She smiles gracefully where Asher does not,   tapping her mouth in pseudo thought.     ‘   No,   I couldn’t have.     Your collar is a mess.   ’     As if to emphasise the point,   the edge of her finger glances down the bunching fabric of their shoulder.     ‘   And your charm is simply   …   maladapted.   ’