Some Very Good Shit Right Here! - Tumblr Posts

tw: canon-typical homophobia, medical gore (near the end). pre-dethklok magnus and murderface, just dudes bein roommates

They pay the security deposit with the last of Magnus' college fund and put Murderface's grandfather's name on the lease instead of their own. It's garbage day, so they spend their morning cruising around a neighborhood on the nice end of town, occasionally stopping to throw furniture into the back of Magnus' truck. They bribe Nathan with a case of beer to help them 'move in', and by the afternoon, it almost looks like a real home: tatty sofa, cracked TV screen, stack of amps along the wall, their own mattresses on the floors of their rooms. It's a two-bedroom, but they deserve a two-bedroom, because they're going to make it big, after all. Nathan almost has a drummer lined up, a big name supposedly, and the gigs are already being penciled in, and they know by instinct that Dethklok is going to be big. Really big. They should be living like kings.

So, on their first day in their new apartment, Murderface and Magnus sit on opposite sides of their freshly-scavenged couch and watch their cracked TV. Magnus has done some 'creative' wiring so that they can 'borrow' cable from the neighbouring apartment, but right now they're only getting one channel and it's the one where people try to sell you things. Deluxe vacuums, currently. Nathan's gone off to have some meeting with their potential new drummer, so it's just the two of them, in their new apartment, that they're now renting together, on their own personal couch. Just the two of them. Roommates. Sitting on a couch…

"Is thisch gay?" Murderface asks aloud.

Magnus glances over a him. "Excuse me?"

"Thisch is kinda gay, right? Two guys living together?"

Magnus blinks at him. "Oh, yeah, totally, man," he replies apathetically, directing his attention back to the television.

"Wait, fuck, scheriously?"

"Seriously. Says on the lease we have to suck each other off every night."

"Fuck. Thatsch not good."

"Trust me, you get used to it."

"Aw, man, this schucks! I don't wanna suck a dude off! Can't I jusch jerk you off or somethin'?"

"If you jerk me off, we don't get the security deposit back."

"Fuck the shecurity deposit. That's your money anyway."

Magnus gives Murderface one of his famous cutting glances from the corner of his eyes. Then he settles back into the couch, propping an ankle over his knee, jiggling his foot a little.

Murderface tries to mimic him, likewise sinking into the sofa, likewise crossing his legs. Super relaxed, super cool.

"I'm not suckin' nobody's pee-pee," Murderface grumbles. "My name's not even on the schtupid lease."

Magnus has already lost interest in the joke. "Oh. Sure. I guess legally, your grand-dad has to suck it."

"Dude, grossch--"

"Shut up," Magnus sits up, gestures to the TV. "Look at that."

The vacuum infomercial has ended. A man dressed as a cowboy now stands before a fake desert backdrop, delivering an inaudible monologue (the speakers on their TV are broken).

"Aw schit," says Murderface, "Now that jusch makes me homeschick."

"Keep watching, idiot," says Magnus.

Murderface keeps watching. He watches as the cowboy reaches into his hip-holster and draws a long, shiny samurai sword.

"Schit!" Murderface sits up. "That's fuckin' aweschome!"

"Right?"

"I want a fuckin' sword-holster! You know what? I'll suck you off if it means we get your money back and use it to buy a fuckin' cowboy ninja sword!"

Magnus looks thoughtful. "You know," he begins slowly, "I have some money left in my college fund."

They lock eyes. No further words need pass between them. They stand and go for the door.

~

Magnus and Murderface are standing before a kiosk in a shopping mall, admiring a dazzling array of knives.

They have big knives; knives with bad-ass triangular holes in them (aerodynamic!); knives with iridescent blades; knives with that fancy stripy folded-steel blades; They have hunting knives with camo-print handles, little pocket knives, Swiss army knives, pocket knives with bullets for handles, pocket knives with lighters for handles, pocket knives hidden in lipstick (for the ladies). They have knives with spikes on them and knives shaped like axes and knives with jagged serrated edges that look like shark's teeth. And, of course, they have swords.

"Schit," Murderface says, pointing, "I want that one."

"Bad quality steel," Magnus says, without looking.

"Fuck that schit, the blade is black. That means high carbon. Extra scharp."

"This is what you want," says Magnus, pointing to a plain steel hunting knife. "Utilitarian. Functional."

"Boooo-ring."

"Classy. That's a knife you can bring to a fancy dinner."

"Check out that knife," Murderface interrupts him. The knife he points to has a blade the length of his forearm, with spikes all around the base near where it connects to the handle, and several triangular holes in the centre.

"Shit," Magnus breathes. "That's a cool knife."

"So fucking cool."

"You want that one?"

"Well, yeah, but…"

"But?"

"I've been thinking, we schould get a lot of knives. An aschortment of knives."

"Oh, yeah, absolutely."

"We need the right knives for the right occasions. Every knife scherves its own purposch."

"And a sword, of course."

"Two schwords! One for you, one for me."

"Three swords. We'll have to keep one by the door, in case of intruders."

"Yeah! It's a bad neighborhood, who knows what could happen."

They lock eyes. They nod. Magnus signals for the clerk.

~

They've just pulled onto the highway and an awful staticky death metal band is blasting over the radio when Magnus turns the volume down and says, "We should have a special dinner. To celebrate the move."

"Dude, grosch," Murderface, whose lap is currently full of knives, replies. "That's gay."

"I'm gay? You're holding a rainbow knife."

"Uh, it'sch called an oil-spill butterfly knife? It'sch limited edition?"

"Whatever, man. It doesn't have to be anything fancy. We can get steak or something. Champagne."

"Gaaaay."

"The champagne makes the lease-required dick-sucking easier, William. You'll thank me later."

Viscerally disgusted, Murderface stabs Magnus' dashboard with his newly-acquired limited-edition oil-spill butterfly knife. "Eugh, just don't call me that while you're talking about dick-sucking! You're really grosching me out."

"Whatever you say, honey."

"Hammersmith--"

Magnus turns up the radio, rolls down the window to let the wind blow in. Murderface watches him tuck his long hair behind his ear, then stabs his dashboard once more, for good measure.

~

They are standing in a grocery store looking at the meat cabinet. It's all very red, and fleshy, and if you think about it, it should be brutal-- a cabinet of dismembered body parts, ruthlessly torn apart, laid out like inanimate objects to be purchased for money and consumed by strangers. Brutal. And yet…

"I don't like it," Murderface declares.

Magnus is frowning at an array of whole fish. "Hm."

"It's jusch lame or something." Murderface rams his fist against the glass. "Whatsch the point of eating meat if you don't even get to kill the animal first? It's fucking bullschit!"

"Hm," Magnus repeats himself. "What about that?"

He points towards a door leading to the back room. Through it they can see a large, steel table, and on top of it is a full half of a pig, skinned and ready for butchering.

"Yeah…" Murderface says slowly, "That's pretty schick."

"You," Magnus snaps at the clerk behind the counter, "We'll take that one. Yes, that one, in the room back there…"

… Ten minutes and a great deal of haggling later, they're pushing half a pig in a cart down the cheese aisle.

"My roommate in college was a law guy," Magnus is explaining. "He went to a lot of fancy events. Showed me the ropes."

"Did you suck his hog?"

"The secret is in the cheese. You have to get the right cheese, and… olives."

Murderface leers at the cheeses before them. "This one looksch fancy," he says, grabbing a package at random.

"Good, get a hard one as well."

"We're in a groschery store, Hammerschmith, that's not appropriate."

"You know," Magnus says quite calmly, "One of these days, I am going to stab you."

Murderface grabs another package at random and throws it on top of the pig carcass. "Oh I bet you'd like that. Schtickin' things in guys."

"William," Magnus lays a hand on Murderface's shoulder. "You're fixated on my sexuality because you're insecure about yours. I get that, and I just want you to know, as a friend, that I don't mind if you're gay."

Murderface smacks his hand away. "Ughh! Don't try your shrink-school bullschit on me!"

"I fully support you and your rainbow knives."

"Shut up! What elsch do we need, olives?"

~

They're stopped at a gas station while Magnus fills up his truck. Murderface is standing in the wine section selecting only the finest gas station champagnes for their housewarming dinner. Which is some bullshit, now that he thinks about it. What the fuck even is champagne? Bubbly wine, right? Maybe they can just drop an alka-seltzer into a carton of Franzia. That's probably easier than trying to read the French gibberish on the labels of all these bottles.

Murderface has a carton of Franzia on his shoulder and is heading for the medicinals section when he catches sight of something truly marvelous.

There, by the door, stands a glass display cabinet. And contained within that cabinet…

"What is that?" Magnus asks, when Murderface returns to the truck.

"Behold," says Murderface, with eminent pride, "A gnife!"

Like a modern bayonet, the 'knife' is, in fact, a very small pistol, with a knife's blade inexpertly welded to the barrel. He waves it in the air so that Magnus can get a proper look.

"Damn," Magnus breathes. "That's pretty cool."

"Right?"

"I don't care for guns myself, but even I can admit-- cool."

"It's scho fucking cool."

"Where's the champagne?"

"I figured we'll just throw a little alka-seltzer in thisch boxed wine. Trailer park champagne."

"Fine, fine. Get in, let's go."

"Hold on. I didn't pay for your gasch--"

"Get in the fucking truck, William!" Magnus yells.

William hurls himself into the passenger seat, landing uncomfortably atop their pile of newly-acquired knives, and Magnus peels out of the parking lot before the cops can show.

~

They're back in their apartment. They've laid the pig carcass out on the card table Nathan's parents have loaned them, and Magnus is holding a samurai sword.

"Come on!" Murderface urges, hitting his fists on the edge of the table. "Cut it already!"

"Give me time," Magnus growls. He's fixated on the carcass, his eyes are wide, pupils blown with excitement. "An artist's cuts must be… precise."

"Well, be preciser faster!" Murderface complains. "I wanna see a pig get fucked up!"

"Silence, grasshopper. Watch and learn… the way of the warrior!"

With one rapid stroke, Magnus brings the sword down, fast and hard, across the pig's torso. There's a loud meaty thwack. The sword is embedded a couple of inches into jiggly pig flesh.

"Shit!" Magnus yells. "The fucking sword isn't sharp!"

"Magnus, Magnus," Murderface says soothingly, sidling over to Magnus, gently nudging him aside. "Go get yourself some wine, let the blade-maschter handle this one." He eases Magnus' hands off of the sword's handle, takes it in his own firm grasp.

Grumbling, Magnus lets himself be pushed aside. "It's a problem with the blade," he complains. "My technique was perfect. Perfect!"

"It's not a problem with your technique, it's brute schtrength that matters the most." Murderface wrenches the sword out of the pig and raises it high above his head. "Watch and learn, Hammersmith!"

He rams the sword as hard as he possibly can into the pig carcass' neck.

The entire card table buckles and collapses.

"Brute strength," Magnus echoes, observing the pile of plastic and pig meat before them. He's already poured himself another solo-cup of shitty white wine.

Murderface stares at the wreckage for a few seconds. "Schwords not sharp!" he yells. "The fucking schword's not sharp!"

"Want some cheese?"

"Fuck yes, fuck this schtupid pig! Where's my butterfly knife? I'm cuttin' some bacon…"

~

Magnus and Murderface sit on opposite sides of their freshly-scavenged sofa in their brand new apartment and watch infomercials on their cracked TV. There is a pile of knives and swords in-between them.

"Pasch me some cheese," Murderface says.

Magnus drives the point of the knife in his hand through a block of cheese and holds it out to Murderface. Murderface skewers it on his own knife.

A man on the TV is talking about the virtues of humidifiers. Magnus has used his technical wizardry to plug one of their amps into the TV, so they have sound now.

"This guysch a fuckin' idiot," Murderface announces through a mouthful of cheese. "Who needs a humidifier in fuckin' Florida?"

"As if my hair isn't ruined enough," Magnus agrees, idly stabbing the arm of the sofa.

"I thought gay guys liked big hair."

"You're thinking of glam rockers. Also, William, I'm getting pretty tired of the gay jokes."

"Hittin' a nerve, am I?"

"If you have feelings for me, sort that shit out yourself. Or at least get a new joke. You're boring the hell out of me."

Murderface bites the tip of his cheese-knife and watches Magnus through narrowed eyes.

Magnus is staring boredly at the infomercial, ramming his knife into the sofa's arm with precise rhythm. When he's not having his notorious violent outbursts, he's actually quite cool and aloof, taking every affront with casual nonchalance. It's only those who have known him for a long time, such as Murderface, who know that below the artificial calmness lies a simmering rage liable to explode at any moment. Murderface has depended on Magnus since he left his grandparents' home; Murderface has seen Magnus flip out at waitresses without warning and throw chairs through diner windows. He is Murderface's idol. He's a ticking time-bomb.

And now they've moved to Florida together, and they're renting an apartment together, and no matter what Magnus says, it really does feel kind of gay.

Murderface picks up a random knife from their pile and starts ramming it into the sofa's arm, matching the timing of it with Magnus' stabbing.

They sit there for a while, each stabbing their respective sofa arms in peaceful synchronicity.

Murderface feels Magnus glance over at him. He stabs the sofa with a little more force.

"Hey," Magnus says in a low voice. Suddenly a piece of paper lands on his lap, with 'LEASE' written at the top. No instruction needed, Murderface stabs it.

A few minutes later, Murderface pulls off his vest and throws it to Magnus' side of the couch. Magnus balls it up and stabs it.

On Magnus' turn, he throws a whole block of cheese onto Murderface's lap. Murderface puts it on the sofa's arm and proceeds to stab the absolute shit out of it. By the time he's done he's practically reduced it to paste.

Magnus has been watching him all the while, ramming his hunting knife idly again and again into the sofa cushion beside his leg. Murderface can't think of anything else to throw at him, so--

"Schtab me," Murderface says.

Magnus looks mildly surprised. And he waits only a moment before leaning over and stabbing Murderface firmly in the top of the thigh.

"Holy schit!" Murderface shouts. "Fuck! Shit! Goddammit!" He clamps his hands over the wound-- blood wells out from them immediately-- he presses down hard, hissing with pain. "Fuckin' schit, Magnus!"

"Oh, grow up," says Magnus dismissively.

"You fuckin' schtabbed me!"

"There's a first aid kit in the truck. Here are my keys."

"Fuck. You aschole."

~

The sofa is covered in knives and blood. Murderface is drunk off of his ass on cheap wine and alka-seltzer, pantsless, sitting on a camp chair in the kitchen of his brand new apartment. Magnus is on the ground between Murderface's knees, holding a lighter in one hand and a sewing needle in the other.

"You schure you know how to do this?" Murderface slurs.

"Of course I do," Magnus says. His elbow is resting on Murderface's un-stabbed thigh, his gaze is focused on the needle he's currently heating with the lighter.

"Yeah? Schince when?"

"I dated an EMT for three months."

"What was his name?"

Magnus puts down the lighter and picks up a packet of dental floss from the floor. Brow wrinkled with concentration, he bites off a long length of it, then threads it through the eye of the needle. Then he drops the dental floss and picks up a handle of vodka. "William?"

"What."

"Don't be a little bitch."

The pain is excruciating. It's like his entire thigh has been set on fire and is being ripped apart from the inside by a thousand hell rats from hell (fuck, good song idea.) Murderface bites down on one of his own wrists, and then buries his other hand in Magnus' hair, clutching a handful of thick curly locks. His eyes water and the tears shatter the world into kaleidoscope-colours until he squeezes them shut; when he opens them again he sees the top of Magnus' head between his own bare and bloody thighs and he's wracked with pain and the sight is delusionally sublime.

Fuck.

Maybe there is something to that shrink-school bullcrap. Murderface just let a man stab him. Is that gay? Is he gay for letting his roommate stab him and then stitch him back up? When this is done he's going to have to do some real self-inspection, or whatever it's called.

Whatever, he's getting stitched back together in his own brand new apartment. Way more metal than having some doctor do it, and Murderface is no stranger to stabbings or their aftermath. He lets himself moan in pain, leaning back in the chair. He tilts his head back, whimpers, readjusts his grip on Magnus' hair. Fucking brutal. It's like a war movie. Like one of those civil war soldiers before they invented medicine. Every stroke of the needle vibrates through his core like heavy bass.

And suddenly-- it's over, too soon it's over. Did he black out? Magnus is standing in front of him, his bare chest covered in blood, wiping his hands on his trousers. Murderface glances down and sees his bare, pudgy thigh, likewise blood-stained, with a small stab-wound in one criss-crossed by uneven stitches.

"You're alright," Magnus says reassuringly.

Murderface struggles to sit upright. "Yeah…" he chokes out. "… Schit, that's a good knife. That's fucking scharp."

"I told you. Classic hunting knife. Can't go wrong." Magnus takes a swig of the vodka, then thoughtlessly wipes his mouth. A diluted streak of pinkish blood is left across his cheek. "Can you stand?"

"Uh, give me a schecond." Murderface feels woozy. He feels very warm. He wants Magnus to stab him again. He needs another cup of wine.

"Just hurry up," says Magnus, turning away. "That samurai cowboy guy is on and I need to write down the number."

"Yeah…" Murderface sighs, slumping back in his chair. "Yeah, sure, write it down for me, too…"

It is their first night in their new apartment. Everything is covered and blood, there is a pig carcass in the centre of their kitchen, and they just know they're going to make it big.