#crowingtaxidermist

[crowingtaxidermist-blog]

Dungeons and Dumbasses

What would a cool looking and trendy dude like David Strider do in some of the clubs he chose, you may ask? Well, fact be so, while David looked cool and awesome, that was an illusion. Y’know, kinda like a mirage of water in the desert. He was one classy-ass fucking mirage of a normal and interesting person, and as soon as you got too close you saw the awesome trippy shades persona leave out the window like fucking Howl in his fucking bird form. Right out your window that beast went, leaving usually a sweaty and socially uncomfortable mess that looked more like he’d fit in a trashcan than anywhere else. And this particular inhabitant of the garbage realm, knew very well that he was shit. Not the shit, but just outright shit. And his interests reflected this in ways that made him look like a douchey Kevin Bacon dancing his fucking douchey heart out in Footloose. Admittedly, David had not seen Footloose, but his logic still stood that he was indeed, Kevin Bacon. Or maybe he was a toolish John Travolta in Grease. The blond’s knowledge of musicals were, sadly, rather sparse at best.

But despite that drop of realness about David’s, well, Dave-ness, he still pursued his jackhole passions with the love and true interest of a certain Kevin Bacon dancing his cock off- Okay, he wasn’t knowledgable enough to finish that subpar analogy, but the thought stayed, David liked to like things. Wow, fucking beautiful. And with that, it also meant very unironically liking things and then playing them off as stupid and ironic so people didn’t immediately assume he was a huge loser. Sadly, this train of self-preserving logic did not stand up well to actual facts and reasoning, but he persisted that it worked. Really, if it didn’t what else was Dave supposed to utilize as his self defence mechanism? Actually being a sociable and upfront person about his personality? What kind of backwards and painfully honest bullshit was that? Especially when faking it until you either broke down crying or sort of barely made it was clearly the most reasonable idea. Look, all aside, this particular Strider was now doing something that he loved under the guise of doing it for his club head’s sake. In truth, he all but begged Nepeta to let him DM a Dungeons and Dragons session. But the man still had enough pride around her to not openly admit that part. Again.

And so there David was, with his table set up in the club meeting room - which, shamefully, was more of a club broom closet than a club room - and his Dungeons and Dragons stuff laying about in a general disarray as usual D&D tables were set up. He had gone all out, truly, which meant fuck yes they had more than one pencil and eraser, and the xeroxed copies of the character sheets were of moderate and legible quality. Truly, this Stridork was going all out for this. And he had his idea for the campaign, too, he just needed to wait for people to walk in and join. Sitting at the head of the table with his Dungeon Master Divider in place - something he had sadly borrowed from his brother, so it had a disturbing amount of anime girls on it, specifically one leek-wielding Hatsune Miku - the blond taxidermist slumped back in his set and popped open his can of pop, relaxing for the ten minutes before anyone was supposed to show up just as someone slammed open the club room door in a very abrupt manner. Sitting up a bit and letting his shades slide down his nose as he stared at the person, completely aghast, the Strider took in the fact that this fucker was clearly ready to go for that free-throw and layup, because they were in full fucking costume and standing rather proudly in front of the Dungeon Master, David really not sure how to process what the hell was even going on for a moment before slowly raising an eyebrow and asking, “A-Are you fucking serious, Holmes?”

[crowingtaxidermist-blog]

Kiss Kiss Fall in... On the Floor...

Contrary to popular belief, David liked to read. He didn’t like reading boring shit like school books - they invented Sparknotes for a fucking reason - but he did like medieval fantasy and books on photography, as well as biographies and autobiographies about historical figures and murderers. Not in that exact order of preference, per-sé. But either way, there was a rather cool new coffee shop and bookstore that just opened up just off campus, and while David usually didn’t go into niche-y pseudo hipster joints just to avoid being absorbed into the hive mind that was veganism and guitars in places where guitars shouldn’t fucking be permitted, Dave heard their book selection was fucking great and the temptation to have real, physical fucking books to enjoy in his spare time was too great to ignore. God, he could already feel himself metaphorically getting hard over the great, solid feeling of a book pressed between his hands, opening it slowly and flipping through the pages with his fingers tenderly, supporting the smooth spine with his other hand as he brought his handsome face down to the open book, inhaling that sweet smell of ink on crisp paper as he- Okay this was starting to get weirdly sexual for someone who was a fucking virgin supreme.

Shaking his head to quit imagining books in a way that was kind of pervy, David continued to move in the line at the coffee shop section of the store, figuring that if he waited in the long line and got his drink first, he’d then be able to maybe enjoy taking his time looking through the nice shelves of books cluttering the other half of the antique-style building. Finally getting to the front of the line and giving his name as he placed his drink order, Dave sighed once he finally got his beverage and the side of the cup read “Dave Stridork”. He really wasn’t sure this time if that was an error because the building was busy and loud, or because the barista decided that she hated that he used debit for a four dollar purchase, but either way he was now drinking from a cup that truthfully proclaimed he was a dork as he went off to walk around. Ah well, it’s not like his final form didn’t scream “Hey, I’m David Strider and you should come punch me in my douche-ass face!” anyways, he just wished that he could live one fucking day without being reminded of it.

Walking through the aisles of bookshelves and looking around at the genres based on the sign designations, Dave comfortably sipped his dork-coffee, scanning along the shelves of books behind the protective reflection of his shades as he finally found the section he was looking for; the biography section. One catch though, despite David’s height, he could not reach the topmost shelves of these book holding pillars these mom-and-pop based hipster owners called bookshelves. So he had to pull over the rolling ladder. Truly, no man has properly lived until he got the pleasure of using those silly roll-y ladders that plagued all bookstores everywhere. They were true innovation, and were the equivalent to bringing a limo to a street race when you were cunning enough to get one for an office chair race. Truly, these things were the product of innovation.

Having already collected two other books - one on the history of taxidermy, and another being a medieval fantasy romance novel of a certain Lalonde’s recommendation - and as he reached and picked up the third - a book on the psyche of some of the world’s greatest sociopaths - Dave suddenly felt like he was floating. Which he wasn’t. He was fucking falling backwards because he was so stupid as to not put down the brake on the wheelie-dealies that were on his ladder, leaving him falling and playing the song Ave Maria in his head as he readied for impact, hoping to god he wouldn’t break any limbs in the process. Closing his eyes and clutching his book selection close to his chest  - you break it you buy it, and all that crap withstanding - and waited for fate to rear it’s ugly head. Which it didn’t. 

After a moment of wondering why he hadn’t gone splat yet, the Strider peeked open an eye, looking up at a person clearly struggling to hold the rather tall blond boy up princess-style, the strong look in their eyes making little shoujo anime bubbles and sparkles and rose petals appear around their form in Dave’s mind - truly, the most manly and profound way for someone to be smitten by the actions of another - while he watched them finally exhale sharply out of exhaustion and drop him, the shorter fall hurting much less than what Dave had assumed his bigger fall would’ve, as he gasped on the hard wooden floor and mumbled out, “... Thanks, I guess..?”

[crowingtaxidermist-blog]

Putting Gordon Ramsey to Shame

All Dave wanted was scrambled eggs, dammit. Like, he wasn’t asking the impossible, it’s just that he had the cooking skills of a person who was blind and had no sense of taste or smell and also had bricks for hands. Okay, well, look, either way, the process was trying even with concise instructions from The Legend Himself - Gordon Ramsey - on Twitter. He expected these instructions to be easy to follow, but lo and behold, there were crushed eggshells on almost every surface imaginable in the Home Economics kitchen, two cartons completely empty as Dave worked on his third carton of disappointment, and among the yolky wreckage there was also some half-scrambled eggs stuck to the wall and to the ceiling. How they got on the ceiling, Dave would openly refuse to discuss, but one can assume it was a traumatic incident. Which it fucking was.

And the thing was, Dave definitely got his cooking skills from his mother. While other kids got to grow up with awesome casseroles and Mom’s cookies being a fond memory, David mostly remembered having to put out fires and sparing his poor mom’s feelings by eating whatever disappointment she made regardless of how hazardous it was to ingest. Admittedly, this caused the blond to have a cast-iron stomach, but that didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate edible food more than whatever the hell he or his parental unit could create. God, he still had nightmares from when his mom tried her hardest to make him a birthday cake when he was ten, the echoes of the other children at his birthday party screaming and crying at the disaster still clear in the Strider’s mind like it was only eight years ago. Oh, wait, scratch that.

Hand shaking as he tried to crack an egg on the edge of the bowl again, one tap, two taps, and the Strider finally successfully broke an egg without it turning to evil shell dust beneath his grip. Exhaling deeply, he watched the pretty gold yolk slide into the ceramic dish, deciding that he could live with just one fucking egg if it meant he could cook it properly. Sighing and pushing his shades back up on the bridge of his nose, the taxidermist trudged over to the stove, pulling out the last clean pan from the cupboard and trepidatiously placing it on the burner, placing a little daub of butter in the pan as he turned on the heat and let it melt. Okay, so far so good. Kinda. 

Pouring the single egg into the pan, the Strider broke the yolk and started mixing it as it began to sizzle and cook, assuming that mixing it more was better as he tried to gauge if it was cooked yet. Shit, like he could tell with his shades on, David grunting at this realization and lifting the lenses up just as a hot splatter of butter jumped from the pan, causing him to leap in surprise, completely forgetting that his other hand was on the handle of the pan as he launched the half-scorched eggs in a large gooey cascade across the room, them going splat in a pathetic mess on a spot of floor near the door... Right the fuck where someone was watching him and fucking judging the hell out of his culinary skills. Well, truly and deeply, Gordon Fucking Ramsey would be ashamed of David Gabriel Strider.

[crowingtaxidermist-blog]

Supercalifragelisticdoubledeckerhoverbus

Okay, so it’s not unusual seeing a Strider standing uncomfortably in a public area, but for once it was for a purpose with a certain David Strider. He was waiting for someone. Not like, a date or anything badass like that, but he was waiting for someone he had deemed rather important to his life. He was waiting for someone he had openly called his best friend for upwards eight years, roughly, and today of all the shitty overcast days Dave was going to meet his best friend face to face for the first time. Like, in real time. In real fucking time. And saying David wasn’t ecstatic would be a lie, because there he was, standing at the closest transit port off campus in a nice red plaid shirt and black fitted jeans. Sure, his red converse were scuffed to hell, but he figured he saved the look with a roasted almond coloured cardigan. And yes, Dave fucking knew what he was talking about with clothes. People didn’t just accidentally dress as good as he did.

Huffing and rolling his shoulders uncomfortably as he kept his mother’s old leather satchel close to his side, David kept shifting his weight from foot to foot impatiently, eyes scanning above the crowds with ease behind the safety of his shades as he tried to spot his friend. Shit, would John even recognize him? Thinking about it, Dave had changed a lot structurally in the past eight months since he sent John a full body picture of himself, the most notable difference being the blond growing roughly a foot in height, which made him look a lot lankier and more awkward, as well as just making him overall clumsier due to not being used to his new longer limbs getting in the way of things. The hair wasn’t new though, John being present through a video call back before Dave had his hair modded, him having made an attempt to bleach it out back when they were both fourteen. God, he could recall maybe a million memories where John was present through his computer screen. Dave’s prom night where he got his first kiss, that time when he got his hand stuck in a pickle jar for three hours, hell John was even around to talk to when his brother Dirk wasn’t. No denying it, John was his friend. So there was no backing out now.

Okay, so maybe Dave still could back out, but it’d look shifty now if he just walked away from the transit port without meeting up with the companion he was very clearly waiting for. Shit, maybe he could glom onto some stranger and slip out easily. Hell, Dave was attractive enough to probably get one of the girls leaving off of the hover-bus to walk with him for a few blocks and just chat nicely until he was out of the view of the transit port, but that’d also mean walking up to a stranger and just... Talking... And that was a pretty fucking tall order for the socially nervous Strider. Maybe he knew someone besides John at the transit station? It happened, a lot of students used the hover-buses to get to regions of the city without having to rely on their own vehicle, so maybe if he looked arou- Oh shit. Feeling his heart stammer in his chest as all the colour drained from David’s freckled face, the Strider went rigid as he spotted someone he was pretty sure was his best friend, and he was coming directly towards Dave. Shit, what if John hated him? No, don’t think like that, Hasselhoff. It was time to get this show on the road. Kinda...

[crowingtaxidermist-blog]

Yes My Moves are Righteous

Smooth was a word that people never used to describe a certain Strider. While his brother was fluid, graceful, and agile, that gene somehow missed David. He’d have to bring up this unfairness to his mother later, but for now he was busy doing work. It was hard being the student director for school plays and shows, especially because he was the person meant to step up and help as a stage hand when people called in sick, but he liked it pretty well nonetheless. Admittedly, he had spent the last hour tripping and bumping into stacks of boxes sorting through what he needed for props, but as the list got more checkmarks added to his flimsy clipboard, he neared the end of his rather annoying game of where’s-that-motherfucking-tiny-ass-prop, he had just one last thing to grab.

Grunting and covered in a light spray of dust, the Strider lifted his shades and pushed them up on his forehead as he squinted at his checklist again, huffing as he scoured through the large and disorganized prop room, then finally found the stark white mannequin that he needed for the next show. It was a women’s mannequin of fucking course, because how dare anywhere own a male dress mannequin that didn’t look like a fucking pasty-ass Dorito with arms, and as Dave went to move the prop he looked down and sighed, it being one of those mannequins with the weird short plastic peg stands that were meant to fit into the pads of the feet, the thing otherwise being able to be moved and manipulated freely like one of those disturbing wooden body model things that the art students had. But this one was huge. And kind of sinister looking. Shit, he really didn’t want to be fondling this weird plastic demon’s Barbie ass while trying to maneuver out of this fucking room.

Finally breaking free of the prop room and stumbling backwards onto the stage where he had all the other props and furniture he was collecting laying out like some sort of impressionistic art deco exhibit, the Strider righted himself as he detached from the mannequin, sighing and turning on his music for him to listen to on the loud speakers while he still had about two hours of work left to do. Dusting himself off as the beat rung through the room, David flickered his attention back to the disturbing mannequin - figuring that the faster he moved that thing the faster he’d feel at ease - and moving to put an arm around it’s waist, him trying to touch it as little as possible when lifting it, but gravity betraying him as headmost dropped the prop, catching the faceless doll in a quick dip and pausing in that position. Shit, Dave really didn’t want to be dipping a doll, but as the music picked up he just shrugged himself off - no one was in the theatre besides him, anyways - and relaxed, gripping the mannequin’s wrist as he began to spin “her” around, the Strider stepping and dancing to the beat of the song for a few moments in wide circles before steering his faux partner towards “her” allotted box, promptly slam dunking the creepy prop into “her” new cardboard home and shivering for a moment before he heard clapping coming from the far corner of the theatre. Right... Where... The... Door... Was... Goddamnit Strider.

[crowingtaxidermist-blog]

Pretty Fly for a- HOLY FUCK

Okay well, it’s not like he didn’t expect this to happen, but regardless of one being able to practically foresee the cruel chain of events that they were about to enact like some fucking prophet or some shit that didn’t mean that one had to like it. The “one” referring to a one and only, David Strider. And some might ask him if they could see into his brain why he called himself David in his head but insisted others call him Dave to his face, but in all fairness, not even David was sure why he did that. Or why he wasted time talking in the third person to himself when he was alone. Like, seriously, this kid’s idiosyncrasies were stupid to the max. And yet, the jam he got himself into made all those weird mannerisms and nervous ticks look like smooth, clear jelly.

He gat gotten himself stuck upside down. But not like, in a cool and awesome way, in an I-Thought-A-Magna-Board-Would-Be-A-Fun-Hobby-To-Pick-Up-But-I’m-Also-The-Clumsiest-Fucker-In-All-Of-Whoville type way. Truly, David was gifted in making himself look stupid but also oddly nonchalant. Well, about as nonchalant as someone could look, hanging about seven feet from the ground upside down with his feet currently stuck in the magna-board harnesses. God, of all the things to fuck up, it had to be something that would make the blood rush to his head and make his face look even more red than usual. Well, at least his body couldn’t do that unforgivable and inconvenient thing with blood rushing somewhere more south on his persons when he was stuck upside down. At least that was a “benefit”. Kinda.

Casually hovering down the street like the whitest Aladdin impersonator ever, Dave knew very well that people were gawking at him. In all fairness, if he saw someone in his exact position, he’d probably go even further and take a selfie with them, but for now he just took upside down pictures of himself all by his lonesome, every once in a while giving someone a finger pistol as he casually hovered past them, looking deadpan and collected as fuck with his shades on. At least, he thought he looked nonchalant and cool, most people probably wondered why he wore them like a Ben Stiller/Horatio wannabe, but it’s not like Dave particularly cared to give an answer. To him, the shades were just cool. They didn’t need explaining. Sighing and rubbing his neck where a kink was starting to form, the Strider lifted his phone again, sending another picture of himself to his brother in hopes that Dirk might come and rescue him again, only to falter as someone leaned on the upturned magna-board, causing Dave to stutter and look up at the character, unsure of what to say for a moment before droning cooly, “Uh, c-can I help you? Or are you looking to hitch a l-lift surfer-style?”

[hooliganintraining-archived-blog]

I want to be disappointed in the order that Lucas intended, dammit!

John was a man with a great sense of justice despite his predilections for trickery and hustling, after all if someone was stupid enough to fall for the oldest tricks in the book and a three card monte that was their fault, right? However, what John had just seen was a travesty a grievous miscarriage of justice and one that he had to correct. He had to be batman here, not the terrible movie batmen but the batman from the ancient animated series where he was dry and sarcastic and the joker was voiced by a Jedi master. John was many things and normally a man of violence was not one of them but today he needed to pick up a skinny hipster and break him over his knee like the most professional of the wrestlers, probably the undertaker. You are reasonably sure the undertaker would do that. The undertaker would take the skinny jeans wearing ‘i hate fencing so i joined the club for it because i was good at it’ bastard and break him over his knee.

John had arrived at the school a few days a go regretfully missing Jade’s graduation due to a mix up on the shuttle, perhaps he shouldn’t have offered that old lady some ‘peanut brittle’, but how was he to know that the snakes bursting from the can would give her a heart attack! That had delayed him by at least a month while they sorted out exactly who had been at fault. They ended up determining that he really had no way of knowing that she had a weak heart and that pranks weren’t manslaughter citing something called the ‘Sassacre law’. He knew of the man from the ancient tome left to his family by the great southern prankster and black sheep of the Crocker family but it was always interesting to see the mark he left on history. He still needed to apologize to Jade about that, and hope she was in a forgiving mood, for now though he needed to break a Strider and his shitty taste in everything.

One of John’s major regrets was not arriving sooner so he could stop Dave from obtaining the one head spot of the leadership club in what would have clearly been some amazingly choreographed sword battle over Mt. Doom shot in New Zealand in where someone with taste was tempted by the power of shitty action movies and ironic love for the works of Michael Bay and the star wars prequels. This image was why he burst through several doors, pushing them open as if he were a kool aid man or some large rugby player who became a butler after murdering someone. “Put that remote down!” John exclaimed dramatically to … a room empty of anyone but Dave, well this would work too. “Dave, what the hell is even with this order!? The phantom menace, attack of the clones, revenge of the sith first? Are you trying to make people hate star wars?” It was a pity he wasn’t wearing one of his many star wars shirts, he had this great one that was wookie fur print. “We need to be disappointed in the order Lucas intended, damnit!” John was almost as mad as that one short guy he had sharked at Yugioh, then at magic, then at every other card game they had. He had proclaimed himself king of games. He would have gotten a crown or something or stolen one but Meenah had been there and hustling on her turf was forbidden on pain of extreme injury.

[crowingtaxidermist-blog]

Fraudulent Friends

What did Dave do at work? Simple, he did taxidermy stuff. Well, it actually wasn’t that simple and more often than not did he sit on his tube of superglue and get stuck to his chair, but it was something he still liked doing regardless of that. That was, until his boss said that imaginary taxidermy animals would sell like wildfire. Well push comes to shove, Dave was always a people pleaser, it’s just that he could never really come up with anything beyond jackalopes and maybe furred snakes as imaginary animals. After a few days of fooling around with ideas and failing quite miserably, the Strider couldn’t help but temporarily question his choice in hobbies; then proceed to go to a bookstore and pick up a text on legendary monsters.

Okay well, most of these legendary monsters were kinda impossible to replicate, let alone have their names pronounced properly, so this was going to be more of a challenge than the young Strider ever fully considered, having really only remedial monster creation skills. Finally settling for one that looked cool and had a trillion octopus tentacles, the young Strider set to work on preserving tentacles in chemicals and glazing them with sealant and hardener, trying to attach them to what appeared to be a big huge beak. Thus far it was looking pretty neat, and once Dave had completed the creation he set it on his separate shelf to dry, standing up from his seat with a groan and a crack from his back, the Strider moved towards the half door that separated his workshop from the front of the store, walking over to the mini-fridge underneath the counter that held his lunch in it. Pulling the bag from it’s chilly confines, Dave froze in his tracks as someone walked into the store, looking down at his dirty work clothes and biting his lip as he scuttled back to his workshop quickly, knowing all too well that if he didn’t duck out he’d be caught covered in formaldehyde.

Opening the half door quickly and closing it behind himself, the Strider thought he was in the clear until he was the crow - his mortal enemy - squeaking through a small crack in the window getting ready to murder Dave to death with his beak or some shit. Admittedly, David Gabriel Strider was no bird expert, but his first thought was to save the work he just spent six solid hours on, quickly setting down his sandwich bag and not noticing the bag of corn chips he had, had fallen out of said bag and onto the floor. Swiftly hefting the large taxidermy sculpture and trying to move it to the top shelf of his work station so he could close the plexiglass shutter on it and keep it secure, it was like a fucking slow-motion night mare unfolding as Dave moved to almost step on the bag, only for the crow to dive for the corn chips and squawk, startling the Strider and making him topple backwards with his sculpture as an admittedly very girlish scream escaped his lips. Falling and getting pinned under the monster form as he moved to protect it from impending doom, the crow from hell took it’s chance as it snatched the chip bag and flew out the window again, leaving Dave stuck there and winded badly by a heavy animal ornament as someone’s shadow loomed over him, his own pride too hurt already to say much more than, “...P-Please help.”