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To Love and Be Loathed
By crabmoney3
You know, after nearly five fuckin’ seasons you’d think people would get tired of acting like Tillman was going to trash everything he touches. He gets it. Really, he does. He was a shitty-ass pitcher. Haha, remember that game Tilly gave up 25 runs? Yeah, fuckwad, he was there. Of course he remembers. But he’s a batter now, and a pretty damn good one at that. Better than some of the other shitheads on the Crabs, but you don’t hear clawmentators saying shit like “Sutton Dreamy stepping up to the plate. Get ready to be disappointed, folks.” Nope. Always Henderson’s fault. Doesn’t matter how many triples, how many homers. They only remember the strikeouts and the fuckups from the moments they think matter more. Confirmation bias or whatever the shit.
He steps up to the plate and can already hear it in the back of his mind. “Two outs, nobody on. Henderson stepping up to the plate. It’s up to him to keep this inning going, so get ready for the changeover, folks.” God, he hates that shit. Some shitty little dude hiding in a box behind a microphone telling everyone he’s going to fuck up. Why don’t you step up to the plate and do any better, asshole? Yeah. Fuckin’ figures.
Tillman hates batting in San Francisco. Not any more than he hates batting in Seattle, or Breckenridge, or Charleston, or anywhere else, really. But he still hates it. He hates the stupid heart-shaped field and sappy-ass kiss cam constantly cycling through the stands. Yeah, we get it, you’re the Lovers, la-di-fuckin’-da. Good for you. Not everyone has that PDA shit or any of that A shit goin’ on, so maybe just cool it a bit. He tries to block the Polyhedron out of his mind while Parker Meng winds up the pitch.
He can already tell the ball’s going below his strike zone. He holds back and waits for the Ump to make the right call.
“Strike One!”
He turns around in disbelief. “What the fuck do you mean strike one? That cringe-ass pitch was below my knees!”
The Umpire stares forward, unmoving.
“Whatever. Guess you hate me just like everyone else.”
He chokes up on the bat and smacks it on home plate with a dull thud. “Come on, Meng,” he hollers. “You got lucky. Even I pitched better than that.”
She lets the next pitch rip before he’s finished talking. It’s headed straight down the middle, and Tillman scrambles to hit it in time. It’s a foul ball, up, back, and to the right. He’s low and late, just barely making contact. He hears the clawmentator in his head.
“The count’s 0 and 2 for Henderson, one more strike and he’s out. Looks like it’ll be a quick at-bat, listeners.”
Tillman takes a deep breath. No the fuck it won’t be a quick at-bat. Meng winds up. Here’s the pitch. High and outside. Tillman almost takes it, but stands his ground. Another wind up, another pitch. It might be in the strike zone. It might be too far inside. Henderson chances it.
“The count is 2 and 2, still the top of the fifth with Henderson batting. Two out, nobody on. Here’s the pitch from Meng.”
Fuck you, Scuttly. Tillman makes contact with the ball and runs. It’s a grounder towards short stop. He makes it to first before the ball makes it to the first baseman, but that’s as far as he gets. Only a single. But at least it isn’t a strikeout.
Pedro Davids steps up to bat next. He hits a foul ball. He holds back on a too-high pitch. He hits a grounder straight to Helga Burton at third, who gets it to Helga Washington at first before Pedro’s halfway up the first base line. The clawmentator doesn’t say shit.
He trots towards the visitor’s dugout and flips the Umpire off along the way. He tugs off his helmet and mutters to himself about how this whole game is bullshit. He only has a couple of minutes for the inning changeover and needs to get ready to field. Before he can get inside the dugout, a hand grabs his arm.
“What the hell is your problem?” Kennedy asks.
“Fuck off, Loser.” Tillman tries to pull his arm away, but Ken’s grip tightens.
“What were you thinking? Yelling at an Umpire during your at-bat, flipping it off? You’re lucky you didn’t get yourself incinerated. Or worse, somebody else.”
Tillman yanks away. “Oh yeah because we all know it’s better if I’m the one who gets incinerated, right?”
Ken places his fingers to his temple. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”
He laughs. “Sure you fuckin’ didn’t. Don’t act like you wouldn’t be happier if it’d been me instead of Nora.”
Ken stops and he stares. “Tillman, are you okay? I don’t think I’ve heard someone mention Nora in god knows how long.”
Remember that game Tilly gave up 25 runs? Yeah, fuckwad. He was there, too. So was Nora, for the first half of it.
Tillman storms into the dugout, swaps his batting gloves for a well-worn mitt, and takes his place at third base. While the team warms up, he can’t help but glance towards the Umpire over and over. It’s still staring ahead, unmoving. But now it’s facing him.
Bottom of the fifth. Nobody out, nobody on. Alexander Horne steps up to bat. Tosser tosses out a pitch, but the Umpire isn’t looking. He’s still staring at Tillman. Why the fuck is he staring at Tillman. Horne hits the pitch and it goes straight to Forrest Best, first baseman. One out, nobody on. The Umpire keeps staring. Ortiz Lopez slithers up to the plate.
“Hey, what the fuck is your deal?” yells Tillman.
“What?” asks Ortiz.
“Not yours. This cringe Umpire over here.”
“Tillman, stop it,” Kennedy warns from second base.
“What’s with the staring, asshole?”
It keeps looking at him.
“What are you going to do?”
He can’t stop the words. They’re already formed in his throat.
“Incinerate me?”
* * *
He’s still screaming when he enters the Hall. Smoke rises from his skin and he feels the heat emanating from his bones.
Still too hot? asks a massive squid floating in front of him. Weird.
The Monitor picks up Tillman in one of its tentacles and dunks him back into a pool of water. When he pulls him out again, the screaming has stopped. He’s stiff, hardly able to move, a thick layer of ash covering him from head to toe.
It’ll come off.
The Monitor puts Tillman down. Tillman immediately begins to cuss him out and squirm. The outermost layers of ash begin to crack and fall.
Nora will probably help when she shows you around.
Nora. Fuck that. Not Nora.
Well see ya.
And with that, the squid swims away.
Tillman starts chipping away at the ash on his body, trying to crack it at the joints. There’s no way he’s waiting for Nora to get here. It hurts when he starts to peel larger chunks off, like picking at a scab. He doesn’t even register where he is at first. He doesn’t even register why Nora is there too. Not until he hears her voice.
“Hello, Tillman!”
Fucking shit. He’s dead, isn’t he? That’s what happened? He turns around as sees her for the first time in years. She’s in a whole grim reaper getup. It would actually be pretty fucking poggers if it wasn’t for the fact it was Nora and it means Tillman’s dead.
“Welcome to the tre—”
“Fuck off, I know where I am.”
He pushes past her, feeling his joints ache with every step he takes. She’s still talking but he’s not listening. Why the fuck would he listen to this shit? Why would he want some shitty-ass tutorial on how to be dead? Fuck that, he’s out of here. He keeps moving through labyrinthine hallways without turning to look back and she if Nora’s following behind. Some doors open to nowhere, some to bedrooms or storefronts. He keeps going until he finds himself in a Noodles & Co. and hides himself if the dry food pantry in the back.
“Fuck!”
He sits down on the floor and continues picking at the ash on his skin. Probably not the most food-safe thing to be doing in a restaurant pantry but hey, he’s not a fuckin’ health inspector and everybody who’s eating here is already dead, so fuck it. Let’s keep peeling shit.
Beneath the ash his skin is soft, softer than he remembers. What bothers him is it doesn’t seem burnt. It’s just skin. He’s not sure what he expected. He’s not sure if he’s relieved or disappointed. It just is what it is. He keeps picking and doesn’t care how long he’s there on the floor for. It could be minutes, it could be hours. Time doesn’t matter when you’re dead.
He’s picking at a piece of ash on his knee when the door handle starts to jiggle.
“Oh come on, get your own fuckin’ pantry. Can’t you see I’m doing shit in here.”
Derrick opens the door anyways. The pantry door is surprisingly good at soundproofing.
“Who the fuck are you?” Tillman asks.
“I could ask you the same thing,” Derrick responds.
“Well I asked you first, asshole. And can’t you tell I’ve got fuckin’ dibs on this rank-ass noodle pantry?”
Derrick sits down. “You’ve still got ash on you. You’re new.”
“Wow, smart guy over here. Fuckin’ brilliant sleuthing.”
“Nora’s looking for you.”
Tillman stops picking. “Does it look like I care?”
“Yes, actually.”
“Like I would give a shit about oldass Nora who died forever ago.”
“Probably won’t be saying the same thing when you’ve been as dead as long as her.”
Who the fuck is this guy anyways? Who gave him the right to interrupt Tillman’s personal pity party, poggers population of one? This is bullshit. Asshole says he doesn’t know who he’s talking to, but he knows Nora’s looking for him? There’s something sus going on here for sure.
“I don’t know what kind of fuckin’ agenda you’ve got here asshat, but I’m onto you. Say you don’t know me but you know Nora’s looking for me. Bullshit.” Tillman flicks some of his ashes at Derrick.
“I put the pieces together.”
“What pieces, shithead.”
“You’re new. Nora greets the new people. Not that many pieces to put together, here.”
“Fuck you.”
“Charming.”
“Fuck you.”
“You just said that.”
“Fuck… fucking shit.”
“Nice one.”
Tillman slams his hand on the pantry shelf behind him. It shakes and an onion four shelves up falls and hits him on the head. He thinks that yeah, fuck it, that would happen right now. Derrick laughs.
“Shut the fuck your mouth,” Tillman snaps. “What are you even doing in a fucking piece of shit pantry anyways.”
Derrick runs his hand through his hair. “Honestly? I usually come here to hide when there’s a new person.”
“Fuck you.”
“No, I’m being serious. Don’t really like meeting people, or re-meeting people depending on who’s died. Not really a fan of being reminded that no one remembers I existed.”
“Hey, just be lucky no one gives a fuck about you. Better than hearing what a piece of shit you are all the time.”
Derrick sits with this for a minute. He thinks about the way Mike used to cringe every time “Mike Townsend (is a disappointment)” came on in a store. But then again, he’s the one who’d get asked for autographs by fans. They knew who he was.
“I’m not sure,” he says. “Maybe if you’re really hated, but not if it’s kind of your thing.”
Tillman scoffs. “Oh yeah? And how do you know if it’s my thing.”
“Dude,” he brushes the ash off Tillman’s chest. “You’re wearing a shirt that says ‘The Guy Who Sucks’ under your jersey.”
“So?” Tillman goes red and crosses his arms, covering the writing. He forgot he was wearing the shirt.
“So you know it’s your thing already! Come on, man. You don’t expect me to believe you’re genuinely that much of a shitty person, do you?”
“Maybe I am.”
“Maybe you are, but it’s on purpose, right?”
“Listen whateverthefuck your name is, why would I want people to think I’m so shitty that they’re always fucking talking about it. Why would I want to be so hated that even the asswipes calling the games talk about how much of a fuckup I am?”
Derrick thinks about the fans crowding around Mike after games, cheering lyrics from the song when he throws a terrible pitch, but never booing when it happens.
“I mean, to be clowned on is to be loved, in a way.”
Tillman fucking hates this guy. In what world does this dude get to tell Tillman that he’s loved, actually, when he’s spent so many years making sure he wasn’t.
“Listen, asswipe—”
“Derrick.”
“Listen, dipshit, you don’t know how fucking lucky you have it. Nobody in your business. Nobody pushing you to be a better person because they can’t stand who you already are and can’t get it through their thick skulls that you’re not going to just fucking change overnight.”
Derrick snorts. “You really are clueless, huh? Man. I wish people loved me that much when I was alive.”
Tillman pantomimes crying. “Oh look at me I’m Dipshit I didn’t have any friends or anyone bullying me all the time so I don’t know the difference between being clowned on and being loved boo-fuckin’-hoo.” Derrick throws a carrot at him. “Ow! Man, what the hell?”
“You really don’t think anyone loved you?”
He briefly thinks about Declan. That’s not love, though. That’s gamers who sometimes make out. There’s a difference. He almost thinks about Kennedy, but stops. Loser’s probably just happy that Tillman’s the one who ate shit because of his stunt with the Umpire. He bets Loser’s been waiting for this moment for a long time.
He turns the question back on Derrick. “You don’t think anyone loved you?”
“Maybe.” He thinks about Mike’s awkward smile. The way his glasses fogged up when Derrick held his hand when they were the only two left in the dugout. He thinks about their short reunion when Mike came to get Jaylen out, but not him. How neither of them mentioned anything from before. How Jaylen sent so many people back to the Hall in her place. “Maybe being loved is worse.”
Tillman doesn’t respond. He doesn’t think he knows shit about love, and he’s pretty sure this guy doesn’t either. He goes back to picking at his ashes. Derrick waits for a response, but he doesn’t get one. Eventually he gets up to leave.
“Guess we won’t ever know, will we?”
He leaves the pantry door open behind him.
***
You know, you’d think after a certain amount of time that Tillman would get fuckin’ tired of hiding from Nora. Well, he is, but there’s no way in hell he’s going to actually talk to her and handle that whole situation. So no, he’s going to keep hiding in pantries and closets and shit like that until Nora stops looking. She’s going to have more dead dudes to tend to at some point right?
He doesn’t even realize it’s the end of the season until Derrick finds him in the Noodles & Co. again. Derrick sits in the seat across from him in the cornermost booth. Tillman holds up a menu in front of his face as though that will convince Derrick to fuck off.
“Still think being clowned on means you’re unloved?”
“Fuck off.”
“Look at the idol board.”
“Why should I?”
Derrick yanks the menu from Tillman’s hands and throws it on the ground. “Look at the fucking idol board, Henderson.”
***
“What the shit is this?”
The pair stand in the entry room of the Hall. The idol board looms on one of the walls, and there it is. Tillman Henderson rising up, up, up through the ranks. Even though he’s dead. They both know the last time this happened. The last person this happened with.
“Still think they hate you?”
“What? Yes. No. I don’t know. Yes.”
“Well spit it out, which is it.”
Tillman starts pacing. “It’s a prank, bro. They’re fucking with me. Right? ‘Let’s get cringe Henderson the fail dead guy on the idol board for shits and gigs!’ That sort of shit.”
Derrick shakes his head. “I don’t know. This feels bigger than that.”
“Fuck you. Did someone put you up to this? Did you rig it or something?”
He sighs. “Maybe someday you’ll realize not everyone’s out to get you.”
“Fuck off, you don’t know me.”
“Yeah, well, at least someone gave you a heads up about whatever this is. You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t ask for your shitty heads up!”
In his frustration, he tries to splash Derrick away. He slams his hand into the pool, the one the Monitor dunked him into days ago to put out the flames. But he’s stuck. His wrist is underwater, but he can’t pull it out no matter how hard he tries. Tillman turns around and looks into the water. His own reflection is replaced by the smoldering face of Jaylen Hotdogfingers.
“It’s your turn,” she says, pulling him under in her place.
***
His phone vibrates in the pocket of his Shoe Thieves jersey. Incoming call from Declan Suzanne. He locks his phone and puts it back in his pocket.
“Ignore.”
He’s not sure how many times he’s let Declan go to voicemail since getting back. He’d think it’d be enough for Declan to get the picture, but that guy never knows when the game’s over. Sometimes he thinks he should pick up. Sometimes he even wants to. Pretty cringe behavior, if you ask Tillman. So instead he lets it ring.
He does the same thing when Kennedy calls. Or Valentine. Or Ollie. Or anyone, really. Why should he pick up? He’s not their teammate anymore, they were never his friends. Why should he answer to a team that talked shit about him every day for as long as he could remember? The Shoe Thieves fans, now they’re worth answering. They love him. Something about being brought back from the dead made him hot shit. They don’t care that he’s fucking with the Shoe Thieves’ championship run. They’re doing just fine, even with him as a shit pitcher again.
But the thing about that is the Crabs are going up against the Shoe Thieves in the Wlorld Series. It’s their ascension run. There’s something kind of poetic about them saying that Tillman dying fucked up the last ascension run. Even in death, it’s always his fault. Well he’s alive again, and if the series goes into game four he’s going to make sure it’s his fault they blow it again. It’s what they want, right?
Then the Crabs win game one. And game two. And game three. And then they’re gone. Good riddance, really. No one left to remind him he’s the guy who sucks.
***
He can’t believe he actually fuckin’ misses it. He misses that snarky-ass clawmentator echoing in the back of his head, expecting him to fuck up. Who the hell is he supposed to prove wrong now? Season eleven just goes on and it’s like no one gives a fuck he’s a shitty pitcher again. No one gives a fuck that he was a good batter, either. They don’t try to swap him into the lineup like the Crabs did. They don’t try to do anything with him. Sure, he’s got this shittyass fanclub or whatever and he likes the attention but it’s not the right kind of attention. They act like he shits rainbows and he has never once shit a rainbow in his whole fuckin’ life. He hates this sappy-ass bad boy schtick. Can’t fuckin’ stand it. But what can he do about it?
He starts listening to the voicemails.
“Tillman. It’s Ken. I know you know it’s me. Just. Pick up, will you? If you keep up this cold shoulder bit, you’re going to… it’s childish, really. Do you really want to be a petulant child up until the moment it’s too late? Game three is going to start soon and I—we, we don’t want to miss out on goodbye. Not again. Just say hello at the game, will you? You’re better than this.”
He wasn’t. He isn’t. He misses when people called him out on it. He misses when people didn’t love him. He misses when they gave a shit instead.
“Hey, uh, are we okay? You haven’t been calling me back or answering my messages on Stleam even though you’re online playing Rlocket Lleague. I know you’re busy with the whole, being undead thing but, um, yeah. Oh it’s Declan by the way. Uh. Call me back when you can maybe?”
He goes into saved messages. He listens to the oldest one.
“Hello, Tillman! I know Pedro recently removed you from the carpool list for unspecified reasons. I was wondering if you would like a ride to our game tonight? It’s very important you get there on time to warm up your pitching! Let me know! Either way I will see you there.”
***
Time’s up, kid. Say your goodbyes yet?
The Monitor floats in front of Tillman at the end of season thirteen. The Crabs came back during season twelve. He left a voicemail for Kennedy when it happened. “When I told you to fuck off, I didn’t mean it like that, Loser.” He didn’t answer when Ken tried to call back.
“Goodbyes are for losers,” he tells the squid.
Hm.
He’s not covered in ash when he climbs out of the pool this time. Nora’s not waiting for him, either. Guess she must have given up. Or maybe the tour is a one-time opportunity. Not that Tillman cares. Or wants to care. He makes a beeline for the Noodles & Co. pantry.
“You could have knocked,” Derrick says, sitting on the floor and eating an apple.
“Fuck you.”
“You haven’t changed much.” Tillman sits down across from Derrick. “You sure were loved this time around from what I heard.”
Tillman crosses his arms and refuses to make eye contact.
“So what did you learn? Which of us had the shittier time? Being forgotten or being clowned on?”
Tillman takes a deep breath and yanks the apple out of Derrick’s hand.
“Hey—”
“You were right.”
Tillman takes a bite out of the apple.
“Being loved is worse.”