Just a li'l something I was thinking about. Some of the best writers for slashers are also experiencing some overwhelming feelings of exhaustion, sadness, numbness, etc. This is for all my fellow writers and slasher lovers. Inspired by this post by @makeitmars; happens 7 years before House of Wax. This is crackfic, pls don't take it seriously
Warnings: Insults and vulgar language
House of Wax: Sinclair Bros. being Himbos and Thots
Lester turned at the road signs that alerted him the road was closed. The road was not actually closed, but it did mean that it was leading somewhere.
"Closed: Road Work Ahead" he read off the signs, turning down the familiar dirt road; "I sure hope it does" he chuckled to himself, his only audience being himself, his roadkill, and whatever God was up there that let that bird that passed overhead plop one on his truck.
The afternoon sun was off to his right, shining in the mirror and creating a glare that would destabilize a vehicle with a less-experienced owner. But he'd gotten used to it, and golden rays of the a soon-to-be setting sun lighting the sand below, stirring up bronze clouds of dust as he pulled up to the sprawling 2-story manor he and his brothers lived in.
Parking his truck, he hopped out of the truck, forgetting for 1234567892347658409321st time in his life that his truck was higher off the ground than he expected and he barely caught himself as he stood on the ground precariously, grabbing for the door handle and clinging to it by sheer luck and his guardian angel's exasperated work. He took a moment to remember what breathing without feeling his heartbeat in his ears felt like before pulling himself up in relief, shutting the door before stepping into the house, arms tight at his sides like a hunched penguin out of embarrassment. He hoped Bo didn't see that cause he'd never live it down. He was already a fetus.
The youngest Sinclair took a deep breath and straightened his posture to look more dignified than he felt, the trees in Ambrose feeling jealous of his Leaning Tower of Pisa pose. He raised his hand to knock politely when he remembered this was his house. The door was probably open! He put his hand on the brass doorknob, and turned it.
It didn't move all the way. SHIT DID BO LOCK IT?!
Lester's panic was only shown when he began to try and open the door multiple times more, only for it to turn very slightly and not open all the way. He was panicking, hoping he wasn't left out of his own house, hoping his brothers didn't leave or get hurt when he noticed that he was turning a handle and pulling, when he needed to push to get inside the house.
He really needed to be more aware. Sighing, he entered through the door, wanting to get away from the chorus of birds outside who knew all his business.
Stepping into the house, he was greeted with the sight of Vincent, his masked older brother, pouring all his attention into a poem. His brother had that look in his eye, the one where he seemed to search for something, the one where his mask was tilted up with the most deadpan expression and looking like he regretted smoking oxygen that morning. Vincent had been this way for a while now, ever since they got that CD of 'metal' music (which was, admittedly, pretty cool). Lester wasn't sure if this was supposed to something to think about, but his brother was an artist, he probably wanted to make different flavours of personality, or talk about their morals. Goodness known the brothers had...varying degrees of them. Did they have any?
Vincent sighed, before his blue eye turned to his brother's own hazel eyes, inherited from their father. He waved to his brother, who nonchalantly regarded him before letting his head fall back again to sigh once more, looking at the popcorn ceiling as though it could solve everything.
"Heya...Vince;" began Lester, greeting his brother with a friendly if awkward gaze. "How are ya?" he asked, his smile faltering somewhat as his brother didn't move to respond. Perhaps changing the subject would do it? "I know we usually have lunch together; do you know where Bo is?"
His brother still remained in his seat, and the tense atmosphere began to mellow gently into mild annoyance coupled with worry. What was his brother thinking about? A new troubling piece of art? The latest victim who was drunk and pissed outside the wax museum? Was his brother jealous of his junk or something? He knew Bo was, maybe twins feel everything? Anyway, his thoughts were turned silent as he heard distant steps get closer, the wooden stairs creaking with the eldest Sinclair's weight.
Bo rolled his neck, cracking his spine in a way that made the brothers, even the immovable one, flinch at the sound. He stepped up to his younger brothers at the dinner table, greeting Lester with a nod and his younger twin who looked like a mop-head attached to a pool noodle with spaghetti arms that some kid left as a body to trick their parents while escaping from being grounded. Bo shook his head at his brother before waving Lester into the kitchen.
"Hey, how was work?"
"It was alright, so far it was just a few deer and squirrels but apparently Mike found a moose" Lester replied, helping put out the silverware. Bo placed food on each of the plates before sitting with his brothers, and digging into the meal. When Bo got to his seat, he left a plate for Vincent on the counter, not bothering to feed his twin if he didn't move. Seriously, what was this hairy slug doing?
Vincent's stomach growled as he smelled the aroma of food; it was chilli and focaccia bread today. That stuff was the good stuff, but alas, an artist's duty is to suffer for art and he was destined for a lonely ending, a poet, living and dying to serve his art.
Bo and Lester ate with vigor, the latter on a second helping while the elder was halfway through his food when he realized his brother was not even budging. He wasn't even sure his twin had breakfast yet! What the hell is going on in his mind, anyway?
"Hey!" he yelled, Lester's poor heart on Satan's pogostick in fright while Vincent lay unmoving, his fingers in black rings being the only thing that indicated he heard anything. The way his brother didn't respond made Bo more furious. "You're food's getting cold, Opera Phantom!"
Vincent's head sprung up so fast the other two brothers physically felt God smack their faces with the force of Vincent's swishing hair.
Vincent's shoulders tensed, his chest moving under his hoodie in the weather from Hell they experienced in the summer to prove not only was he alive but he was about to smack the everloving shit out of Bo.
The nickname came from a play they did at school once, Vincent playing the Phantom of the Opera in high school, which was originally Bo's part but Bo had gone out to drink with some of his gang and that left the play without any understudy save for his twin Vincent who read the classics and knew the opera from the back of his hand. Vincent was begged and finally bribed by his brother to take his part in the Phantom of the Opera play, Bo saying his gravelly voice would do well for the part, and he wouldn't need special effects for his face, and the wax mask would do well! With a defeated sigh Vincent did so, taking his brother's place and meeting Christine, who was played by Bo's crush in highschool Veronica, a pretty, popular girl who had the eye of everyone around her. Vincent still remembered how pretty she was.
He got along with the act quite well, his throat hurting after the first few acts but he persevered and soon was at the last act, where he was supposed to take off his mask, and reveal what would have been Bo's makeup prosthetics but Vincent's true scars. Nervously, he remembered standing stock still on the stage, delaying it by a few minutes as he wrestled with his anxiety and options on what to do at this pivotal moment: be a star and fake it all or fall victim to the merciless crowd. He decided for his art, he was willing to do it.
He took one step forward on the set and fell facefirst onto the wooden stage.
After a few shocked gasps, he scrambled up after being convinced he was still, in fact, trudging this awful unfair world in all its beauty and foolishness, and lifted his face, groaning in pain yet marveling at the miracle that his nose wasn't broken.
But people can be cruel.
Vincent's wax mask, melted through hours of Louisiana heat and internal blushing, was squished.
"Hey look it's Fuckface Phantom!" an audience member shouted, undoubtedly one of the people Bo would want to hang with.
The roar of laughter could not be drowned out by Vincent's poor shattered heart breaking into snowflakes and landing ass-first on concrete that hurt like a bitch. Vincent ran off the stage, out of the theatre, and back home with tears in his baby blue eye. Needless to say Bo found out what happened and never let him live it down. He honestly thought his twin might have forgotten it by now but apparently not.
Vincent shot up, the chair scraping from the force of his knees as he angrily walked to the counter and grabbed his plate, grabbing some silverware from the drawer when he noticed his hand holding the fork, and black ring on his finger which he stole from a victim, and near the sink in an ashtray, lay a used cigarette.
Suddenly the words were flying out of his mouth to retaliate, initiating the 'Fatality' sequence of Sinclair Insults:
"My soul is as black as Bo's lungs". His brother hated to have anything 'preachy' said to or about him.
The twins stared one another down. Lester's fork wobbled in his hand. The Kill Bill sirens could be felt in the air, tension so thick you could see ghosts breaking through and disrespecting your house by breakdancing on the table.
It was all Lester could do to keep his head down as the twins chased one another around the house, the table being the only thing separating them before they ran off, insults being traded all along.
The squirrels never understood the alpha squirrel squeal of "What the actual FUCK did you just call me community dick for?!"
Bonus
Vincent: You keep smoking your lungs to make yourself a snack but you're already overdone and your meat's trash, old man!
Hc that Aziraphale becomes infamous among chefs in London. It’s basically culinary superstition. This charming gentleman, with white curls and his out of date but immaculate suit. If he isn’t pleased by the food the restaurant never lasts. Not that the gentleman ever does anything more than sigh sadly and pay his bill, always tipping well of course. But something always happens, hordes of rats on inspection day, pipes that never stop leaking no matter how many times they are repaired, there’s even a story about a chef who refused to serve the gentleman and was later attacked by a giant snake in his own kitchen after closing (though no one reallly believes that one). But anytime a patron comes in matching this description the kitchen is always immediately alerted and their food goes out with special care. The wait staff all joke about it after work around drinks but enough of them have worked at restaurants that closed too suddenly, and in strange cercumstances, that they half believe it too.
Crowley is solely responsible.
Aziraphale will occasionally mention something along the lines of
“Do you remember that place we tried a fortnight ago, you know, the one that just butchered the poor oysters? Well I just heard that they closed down! There is a rumor that the failed a surprise inspection. Apparently the inspector opened the walk-in cooler only to be greeted by dozens of very mad ducks*!”
Crowley will casually say something like “hmm, imagine that” very carefully Not looking at the little smile his angel is giving him.
*(they had been very rudely transported via demonic miracle to a very cold cooler, you would hiss and peck whomever opened the door too if you were a duck)
Thank you for 76 followers yay :D I know this is super stupid but Im so exited it finally happened. Im so glad you are here with me and enjoy my art :3
Why Didn't Anybody Say It Was February? Happy Birthday to Us!
Why Didn't Anybody Say It Was February? Happy Birthday to Us! #homicidols
Well … okay, so it’s mid-February, actually. But yeah, February 1, 2016, was the day I chose to flick the lights on for this ol’ website. I’d been “building it” for several months at that point, collecting assets and planning out a content strategy and the like, and then started writing a backlog of posts in October 2015. I hadn’t quite sussed out how Idol Twitter worked, nor had I found more…
