Four bad boys, Ayden, Hayden, Brayden, and Okayden, try to form a school club to learn how to fight their bad boy instincts, or succumb to cliches trying.
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When Ayden's six-pack ap...
Right out of the bat, dear reader, I want to tell you that this is not gonna be a "funny haha" kind of chapter. It's gonna be a sad chapter with sad boy shit, implied-homophobia, abuse, and other trigger warnings. I'll try to be as subtle as I can with this, but you have been warned.
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To say it's a pregnant silence would be selling it short. It's a 40 weeks, preeclampsia-ridden pregnancy, no baby-daddy in sight, the city has collapsed because of a flash-flood, and boy is it not helping that Silence's water just broke in the most unfortunate moment. It's that kind of silence.
Even the ever-present loop of Creedence Clearwater Revival seems muted and solemn as the Dick-mobile slowly, but surely, takes us to the outskirts of the town, past the railroad tracks, past the slums, past the line where the road goes from pavement to dirt, into the hills beyond. I really hope this is not an elaborate murder-suicide thing going on. When he said he wanted to "make us dinner," he didn't really mean he wanted to make us dinner, right?
I always wanted for Hayden to eat my meat, but not in a literal sense.
Still, the truck goes on, sliding on the muddy trail with the grace of a three-legged greased-up pig. And we, the bacon in this situation, can only watch in silence as Hayden takes up to the boonies, most likely to maybe eat us ass first. I would eat my ass first.
The only thing breaking the monotonous drone of the music and engise is the rumbling in Brayden's stomach. And even Brayden himself cannot bring up the subject, with all the tension in the air and whatnot. Not like we have to wait much longer, for there is a light in the distance, followed by many other lights, dim as they are. A run-down wooden sign barely tells us where we are arriving, heavily graffitied over: "HVMW City Trailer Park," with the word "City" crossed out with red paint, replaced by the word "Shitty" underneath. And boy if it isn't right on the money.
The whole park is covered with dilapidated husks of trailers past, most inhabited or broken, all atop a bed of mud and grime. The few inhabited trailers have people outside with fans, sitting on lawn chairs, trying to escape the humid air. Everything smells of gasoline and fried food, which is not the most appetizing mixture.
The truck trudges through the muck and mud, passing every trailer but one in the back. Of all the inhabited trailers, this one seems the most taken care of. But not by much. A coat of fresh white paint covers rust patches that threaten to resurface any second now, while dusty windows opaque the view inside. It has no wheels, standing on cinder blocks instead. There's a big chicken coop on the back of the trailer with about ten chickens roaming about. Don't worry, there's enough room for all of them.
"Home sweet home," says Hayden, killing the engine just in front of said trailer. Maybe it's a caravan. Let's just go with trailer for now.
I always knew Hayden wasn't that well off, but this is just on another level. The level of disparity between Brayden and him, for example, is ridiculous. Even from him and me. This is not fair. This is not fair at all.
