Thursday, May 23, 2019

And now some BoJack Horseman fanfic


HIS LAST LEG
BoJack Horseman maybe goes a little too dark for the series finale

It's been a full year since anyone has called him. Every friend and even the ones he just told himself were his friends have left, at last. Nobody calls, and he calls nobody. He doesn't leave the house anymore. He's given up on solid food, given up even the pretense of cleaning. Now he just shovels the drifts of empty bottles out of the way with his legs. When he gets up at all.

How would Diane write this, he thinks, idly. The thought doesn't get much further than that before he's distracted by seeing himself on the television. In the show he's young again. He's never not watching the show these days. Paid some nerd to get his DVDs onto a computer that plays them on a loop. The horse on the screen is saying something sentimental to Sarah Lynn and it twists in his heart and he takes another drink. Maybe he's crying.

He doesn't care. He's too drunk to feel anything. Too drunk to remember anything. It's surely the five hundredth time he's seen this episode but he doesn't remember it.

It feels like he's waiting for something, but he has no idea what. It's like he's waited his whole life and never realized he didn't know what he was waiting for until now. It's a terrifying thought. A long pull of bourbon quenches it. The sun comes up and goes down and comes up again and slowly he becomes aware that someone's standing next to him, talking. She sounds angry.

'Can you even hear me?' she says. 'Shit, are you even alive? Did I get here in time?'

BoJack turns his head, so slowly. One eternity at a time, the pieces come together. The white flecks in her fur, dot, dot, dot. Her big twitchy ears. Her big doe eyes. Charlotte. That's Charlotte standing there. With a shotgun.

'What are you doing here?' says BoJack. The words feel familiar in his mouth but he can't place them.

'I told you I would kill you', says Charlotte. Her voice is hard. Hoarse, like she's been crying, but hard like iron. 'If you ever got near my family again, I would kill you. Remember, BoJack?'

He remembers it vividly. It's the worst things that stay, and that was the worst. The very worst thing he ever did. He doesn't remember doing it, though. Getting close to them. Oh well, he can take her word for it. He must have done something. He hopes it wasn't too fucking awful.

'Hello? I'm going to kill you, BoJack. Can you understand me? I want you to understand that much.'

'Yeah. I understand. You're going to kill me.' He looks at her in the eye, feeling absolutely nothing. 'Thank you.' This part is going to be hard. He can feel that. He can feel it's wrong for him to say her name. But he has to know. 'Is Penny, is she going to? What did I do?'

'You don't remember, do you? Well it's been a few years. You showed up at her school dressed like a stalker and spooked her. You didn't leave when she told you to leave. She ran home. Ring any bells?'

'Yeah, it sounds like something I'd do. I'm sorry.' It's the simplest thing in the world to know what he should say, but still the words come out of his mouth like heavy stones. Each one. 'I fucked up. I can't be trusted. I need to be. Put down. You're doing the world a favor. Doing me a favor. Thank you, Charlotte.'

It seems like he should stand up or something, but he can't figure out how, and anyway he's probably less threatening like this. Less frightening. He's so sick of scaring people.

'I, uh, I'm glad we agree', says Charlotte, and raises her gun.

'But I mean, I could do it myself. I'm probably going to be dead inside a month either way. You shouldn't, you don't have to bloody your hands. I don't want my murder to hang over you the rest of your life. I don't want, do you see, I don't want to cause anyone pain. I never wanted that. Once you kill someone, even if it's a shitbag you don't even care about, it's something you can never walk away from. Just ask me.'

'That's very thoughtful of you, BoJack. Very considerate of my feelings. You know, I still think you're a good person deep down. But good intentions isn't enough.' The gun goes off, but there's no sound, no pain. Just a flash of light, and BoJack slowly glides down until he's looking at her upside down, lying on the floor in a weird position that doesn't seem to fit with where the couch is. She looks so hard. Pitiless, that's the word. She puts the gun down, leaning against the wall, and kneels and pets his nose.

'It doesn't hurt', says BoJack. 'I thought it would hurt.'

'Me too', says Charlotte, and shrugs. She keeps her hand on his nose, pretty gentle, and keeps her eyes locked on his without any gentleness. It's strange, how part of her is calm and caring and soft while part of her is shaking with rage. 'But that's okay. I aimed low so you would stay alive a while. And know you were going to die. And you're going to die knowing that you ruined me too. You've destroyed everything you ever touched, and you couldn't even die without destroying me too. Your oldest, best friend. Maybe the only one who ever loved you. Maybe I'll go to prison, but I doubt it. But yeah, I knew that it was wrong to kill you and I did it anyway and I'm going to carry that wound in my soul for the rest of my life. Because of you. How does that feel?'

'I, fuck, I let you down, but do you really hate me that much?'

'I really hate you that much.' She bends down and kisses him and gets blood on her lips and there's tears in her eyes and he breaks all the way through the armor.

BoJack cries, in ugly choked sobs, and it's like the last fifty, sixty years didn't happen, he's free and he's crying and this time his mom takes him in her arms and even as he's blacking out he knows it's not really his mom and he doesn't deserve to die happy and that makes it even worse.

I think my new brain pills are doing something

The dreams are coming so fast they blend together. hot and violent and crisp and vivid and wonderful, an explosion of ideas. They might be fully lucid but just going so fast I can't really keep up.

I wake up in my bed and I start flying. When I realize I'm dreaming my instinct is always to fly - sometimes I test if I'm dreaming by trying to fly - and I've been trying to extend my range of dream powers. Create a dream lover. Go to a dream place. Shape a dream body. The last one is becoming a more and more urgent need, I tend to wake myself up in the scramble to be a girl. Why isn't it happening? Why am I so bad at being trans? I should have a woman's body the moment I wake up in a dream if that's who I really was.

So I wake up in my bed and start flying, over and over.

My brother is there, and he seems to think flying is embarrassing but I do it anyway, trying to show him how fun it is. I pop up in an exhilarating burst of speed and come to rest on my back on the ceiling and laugh, daring him to come after me.

I'm crawling on the walls - literally - trying to make my way outside, but I'm so excited I can't fly straight.

I'm scared to touch my body, because it all feels right but I don't know what my hands are going to find.

Every piece of junk I've ever owned is filling my apartment, piles of banana boxes covering the floor. I can't get off the ground because there's no room. I come to realize the symbolism of my baggage getting in my way because I can't let it go even as it's happening.

Somehow I'm floating in deep space with no idea where the Earth is and my body shoots away at the speed of light and I get scared because I'm obviously never going to find it again. But it occurs to me I don't need it, I'm now a liberated consciousness free to explore the inner galaxy, free to expand through the cosmos. This could be what death is like. If only we could let go of that attachment to that meat we imagine is apart and separated from all the rest of space and time just because we live in it, a half-formed thought tells me as I wake up from the fear.

I go to open my bedroom window to get out that way and realize the kids playing in the snow pile outside can see into my second floor apartment - that happens in the winter - and I'm naked. I look down at myself and I'm suddenly not so worried about scarring the kids. In fact I have a crazy urge to go out there like this, to fly up and display myself to the public. It's not so bad to get arrested for streaking if you're a girl, is it? I mean I'm sure the sentence is the same but people don't care as much.

I keep imagining it, vividly, for at least a quarter hour after I wake up. Gliding through the air butt naked, probably invisible because people never look up but still showing them who I am in case they do. But mostly I have the sky to myself. I am beautiful and wild and free. I'm aware of hot rain running over my small, sensitive breasts. I turn around slowly, upside down, and watch the Earth rise in the gap between my legs.

Monday, April 29, 2019

A brand new website

Neocities is apparently trying to bring back the 1990s. I decided to lean into it and leave this overly convoluted blog for the dogs in favor of the freeform HTML. Mainly to get a fresh start for my newest webcomic.