The Hail Mary Touchdown

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To see if the last part of my plan works or not, all we have to do is wait until sunrise. That, and keep Brayden away from the vampire/werewolf girl to stop her from inviting her in again. 

Thankfully, both things are easily accomplished by tying Brayden with some shoelaces and cramming him inside the vent with all four of us inside. 

On one side is Hayden, only halfway with his feet dangling outside; on the other side, Okayden, sitting criss-cross apple-sauce while making pug noises every time he breaths. The tension between the two is palpable, and not in a "miss me, you fool" kind of tension. More like a tension cable swaying in a storm, and I'm an unsuspecting bird about to be instantly cooked by a zap from the dangling noodle. 

Needless to say, me and Brayden are between the two. And it's as quiet as you can imagine. Mostly because everybody is as tense as a teenager self-discovering in the shower when his relatives are in the house and had a little bit too much of Uncle Jimbo's patented face-melting chili, but also partly because Okayden hasn't stopped fiddling with my feet for the last hour or so. 

He is surprisingly gentle. 

Not a word is shared, not a peep is uttered. Everything is as quiet and still as a goose on a pond, and just about as menacing. After an hour or two, Brayden dares to say something, which is shut down by Hayden before he could finish the first syllable. It isn't a particularly interesting syllable, so I will refrain from adding it here and wasting your time. 

"Zip it, wundertwink. You got horny for Werepire and got us fucked! Now we gotta wait in this tight, moist hole until things cool down."

Brayden gives him a killing stare, but his eyes are as soft at him, so it's more like a gentle pat on the back. "well, la dee da. if god didn't want us to be horny for werewolves and vampires, he wouldn't have made them so hot! also, not to be a tracy technicality, but technically, this is yer fault for being thicker than a peanut butter and marshmallow fluff sandwich and not fitting into the vent, which lead clifford the fit a-f werepire here to snatch ya."

Oh boy, now we're pointing fingers. And I haven't cut my fingernails yet. 

"Oh, word?" says Hayden, trying to shimmy his way deeper inside. He fails. "If we finding blame, then this is all Ayden's fault!" 

And here we go.

"It was his dumb sleepover idea that got us here in the first place!" 

"yeah!" chimes Brayden, "and he was the one that got my queen in here and started this whole kerfuffle. god, i wish i had been the one that got her in. enter my chamber, you hoof-footed queen."

And now, it falls to me. I can say that this is all Hayden's fault for being such an aggressive ball-hogger during dodgeball, or Brayden before him for putting us in this fucking secret-room LaCroix shit-show, or even Okayden, who did nothing wrong, but enabled us to stand up to Lieutenant Colonel Fuckwad, or whatever his name is. 

But I'm better than that. We can always point a finger at another person and call them the root of our evil. I can blame my parents for birthing me as a bad boy in a world that gobbles them up as breath mints. They would blame cheap beer and a porta-potty at a Grateful Dead concert. Who's next? The Sumerians who invented beer? Or worse, George Harding, inventor of the porta-potty? See? We ain't even through the circumstances that created the Grateful Dead in the first place. 

This dies with me. 

"You're right," I say, owning up to it. To everything. "It was my fault. Everything. You were all cool before I arrived here. I came in, kicked the hornet's nest, and fucked everything up. You all deserve better. I'm sorry. I do this wherever I go. I'm the King Midas of shit. I need a minute. Excuse me." 

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