Work Text:
Jeremy Blaire.
That was his name, back when names mattered. Before everyone was just another entity floating through Murkoff—believe it or not, they had identities— names , one specifically that Trager wouldn’t forget in a thousand years, and a name he couldn’t forget even after the filth sloshing around in his veins finally consumed him some time in the not-so-distant future.
Would you believe he can feel it under his skin? The ice cold runners of shit and grime running in blackish-blue streaks up and down his arms?
Slithering like little snakes.
(Jeremy Blaire.)
Leaning against the bathroom sink, Trager catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror—the faintest streak of red and greenish-beige skin and gray hair framing the sides of his head, staring back at him beneath the grime and piss that coats every fucking thing—but he doesn’t think much about himself.
He thinks about Blaire. His old bud.
Blaire’s cologne lingers in Trager’s nose. The slightly salty taste of Blaire’s skin worms beneath his teeth and settles on his tongue—faintly, an apparatus of a breathing, pulsing thing—
(Trager never believed in ghosts.
Know what he did believe in?)
Trager thinks back to a day far before today—something like a few years before he met the Engine—to a few different days. The memories mesh together like fabric and glue. Fusing.
All he knows is he’s standing behind Jeremy Blaire, his old pal, his old confidant, gently massaging his shoulders and laughing off the tense air in the room. Maybe they were at Blaire’s house, because there was a mirror on the back wall where Trager was watching himself and not Blaire. Silly, looking back on it.
Blaire never liked the way Trager was. Said he was irresponsible, that he should be more careful , as if either of them had the sense to slow down.
“Relax, Jer.” That’s what Trager had said to him, and Blaire responds with a scoff, shoving his hands away.
it almost hurts, how quickly he scorns
So Trager puts his hands right back and leans into Blaire’s ear.
“Nobody’s gonna find out, buddy. I was only joking.”
“I don’t know how you want me to respond,” Jeremy says, in that cold little voice that makes the hair on Trager’s neck stiff.
Trager considers biting his ear clean off.
The topic is almost dropped as Blaire sips at his drink. For the first time in a long time, Trager doesn’t know what to say, stroking Blaire’s shoulders and thinking about some things he could say…but he doesn’t want to chance anything…
(or admit to anything)
“Rick?” Jeremy says.
Trager looks at him in the mirror.
“Don’t eat where you hunt.”
The way he says it is what really gets Trager hard thinking back on it—the perfect amount of condescending coldness and delicate caution—since Trager was his buddy, after all, and not some criminal. Blaire was always the one with sense, but Trager got the brain.
He remembers now what they were talking about; one of those broads from Medical he raped screwed. Another sloppy night with another sloppy cunt who would most definitely keep her mouth shut—not Trager’s proudest moment, but safe regardless—only Blaire didn’t understand these things and always freaked out.
he thought the roofies were a bit much, but that’s just how Trager wanted it
Limp. Cold. Dead.
He liked his girls cold and confused—always had, since college…or maybe even grade school…
Colorless faces and limp legs. That’s what he wanted. God, how alive it made him feel, to be the only living breathing moving thing in the room, looming over someone who’s dead. Just watching his shadow hover over a lukewarm body, rotting and still and dead.
And stiff.
And dirt.
He wonders how Blaire would look limp, cold, and dead. How he would feel. Would he taste the same? Or would he rot and fester like Trager?
Shit and mud and piss coursing through Blaire’s veins…Sparkly clean Blaire rotting was quite a sight to imagine. The man who never does the dirty work, elegantly combed hair, clean suits and matching die succumbing to mud . It’s enough to bring a smile to Trager’s face, that’s for sure.
Maybe Trager should’ve roofied Blaire when he had the chance, just to see. To see how he’d look dead. To touch on his corpse (like he’s always dreamed of doing).
To touch.
Trager brought up sex often, trying to get a better read on Blaire and sharpen up the little movies in his mind.
Blaire didn’t really approve of Trager’s habits, but there was a night
one spectacular night
after a few bumps and a bottle of whiskey, Blaire called up a hooker and they ran a goddamn train on the little thing—and it was unbelievably boring, but also the most fun Trager’s ever had in his whole life—because he was with Blaire and he was learning so much and seeing so much that he almost came just watching.
He(while lazily thrusting his dick down the girl’s throat, but she was more of a toy than an object of his attention anyway—another cocksleeve, paid and subservient) watches Blaire push inside her cunt, his face contorting for just a second at her whorish, manufactured squeeze before he bottoms her out and grips her flank.
(If it were for Blaire, maybe Trager would take his dick up his ass. He’s not a queer, but
if they could just be so close. close enough to taste Blaire’s sweat and blood and hear the yelps and sighs of dirty rotted fucking and the bodies of two men fighting for something on the bed. the agonizing, raw pain. trager would take that pain. god, he’d scream and bite and kick but he’d take it. and maybe one day, the knots of rot and shit under his skin would tie into blaire’s and trager would stuff his cock inside him until he bleeds out. and they’d be so close. fusing.)
but Blaire would never let Trager fuck him, let alone the other way around. Trager would need rohypnol.
So the men trade off between the hooker’s holes until Trager finds himself balls deep up her ass and shivers (since he was already thinking about fucking Blaire before then).
As quickly as he thrusts into her, he pulls out and pushes back into her cunt before coming inside. ( He bites his lip to avoid grunting Blaire’s name.) However, the little skank is unamused; she grabs her clothes and rushes out, since Trager was an asshole and he was too rough with her and the one thing she said not to do since he and Blaire refused to wear condoms was come inside her—but Trager missed that because he wasn’t thinking about her like he probably should’ve been.
Blaire is fuming, yelling after her as she rushes out before sniffing another bump, then another, then he just kinda stands there, wobbling on inebriated legs—billowing in the wind like a weeping willow—fronds and vines whipping in the wind with that overgrown charm that Trager’s come to appreciate.
That beauty of hopelessness. Wild, untamed hopelessness.
And Blaire is so blinded by his rage and white-out high that it takes him a minute to realize Trager is jerking him off.
He doesn’t know why he did it. He’s not a queer.
At first, Blaire pushes him off and continues screaming at both the long gone hooker and Trager, but Trager closes the gap and says
Shh. Nobody’s gonna find out, buddy.
And they look at each other for a long moment and Trager reaches out and touches him again—an apparatus he’s never touched before spare his own—it’s soft and wet and rock hard and twitches a little between Trager’s coked up, trembling fingers.
He moves in silence. Blaire’s mouth hangs agape like an open door, and his eyes
The windows
let Trager peek inside but since they’re both high out of their fucking minds he cannot discern a single thought. All he can see is white hot flashes of fear and hints of anger. And something else somewhere between.
(Against the wall, Trager tastes his skin just below his ear. Salty and damp. Addictive, just like the coke, and the way the soft skin gives beneath his teeth draws his body a little nearer, with an animalistic whine under his breath)
Blaire doesn’t finish. Once his high dissipates, he pushes Trager away and storms off with his clothes.
That might be the best day of Trager’s life, even if he doesn’t remember much else—the most raw, desolate day of his entire goddamn life—and he finds it funny now just how much he took for granted.
Things were so simple then, back in the time of Trager-the-untouchable—when the whole world waited at their knees for his piss and thanked him afterward. Even licked their lips.
Now there’s nobody left. Just Trager and a bunch of ghosts. Phantoms tied to beds and mutilated, sold for profit.
There’s that executive, too. Only God knows why Trager keeps him alive.
(and that fucker doesn’t even exist. Guess you could call that dying with the secret.)
Trager doesn’t get it either, but he supposes it’s because the guy reminds him to keep his priorities straight.
He reminds Trager why he has to hate Jeremy Blaire.
Mary. Misha? Michelle. That’s why. After the day in the living room where Trager admitted to doing her and rubbed Blaire’s shoulders…Man, Trager thought Blaire would understand.
It was nothing. He was bored, a bit lonely—he needed a win. You can’t blame him for
slipping it into her drink while she wasn’t looking. She was too nice. That’s what did her in. She never rolled her eyes, never interrupted him, went along with everything and everywhere he brought her. God, it was sad. Most of the other girls at least have some agency. He tried to call her the wrong name on purpose just to wipe that dumb kind smile off her face, but she just nodded every time. She would’ve even fucked him had he asked her—Hell, she would’ve let him finger her under the table at dinner had he been persistant—but what kind of an accomplishment is a girl who’ll give it up for free? Who gives out blowjobs like office candy?
No. He makes a game out of it.
He sees how many songs into DEVO’s Duty Now for the Future he gets through before he can spike her drink, then how many more it takes for her to pass out. One, two, three—like being at the dentist’s and getting high before they fork out your rotting teeth.
and they eat them like peppercorns!
He pauses the music.
…
He takes special care to put her clothes back on how they were, not that it matters—just to provide that slight sense of doubt that anything even happened when she finally wakes up.
Trager reassures her that she had too much to drink and fell asleep, but she’s not stupid.
You’re
A
Goddamn
Bastard
Funny how Blaire said the same thing
, and maybe they’re right. But he’s a smart bastard. He would’ve probably gotten away with it if he didn’t try it again.
But he’s a smart bastard, and sometimes he forgets that the world moves and slithers and inches around on its pig feet, and he’s too arrogant to remember that he’s not the only guy slipping shit into drinks. Some girls don’t come to associate that subtle bitter attack with Rick Trager. They think of the first guy who pulled it and maybe got his way, and they think of how to stop him. And they pull a gun out and point it at his cock.
“Drink this or lose your balls.”
And he drinks it like a bitch. He doesn’t need to be neutered, and there’s always next time.
Pauline hits him with the grip of her gun—that’s what pisses him off—but he’s out cold before he can give her what for.
He’s
Cold.
Limp.
Dead.
On his own couch.
The house is a mess when he finally wakes up, coke blown all over the table and wine spilled positively everywhere. The maid will have her work cut out for her in the morning.
but he looks at the clock and it’s 12PM.
And everything is exactly how it was. Still. Almost peaceful.
(his blood boils beneath his skin)
So he gets up and dusts himself off, getting changed and brushing his teeth and everything of that sort, neglecting the shower because he’s a bit short on time. He has to make it to the office before Blaire leaves for the night. He has to rectify—has to explain himself before last night’s mistake comes to bite him in the ass.
(his head is pounding. there’s a nasty bruise where the gun hit his temple
blaire might find it funny.)
He leaves his hair down despite having not washed it. It sits on his neck flatly, his curls straying from their usual pattern, (stiff) oddly straight and messy.
In and out, he won’t stay long. Then he’ll be home to fire the maid before she can even pick up her kids from school.
Teach her a lesson—although, her tenacity is admirable.
It takes him a minute to find his left shoe. Somehow, it ended up under the couch…
…he runs two reds. Nobody pulls him over. Hell, they don’t even honk.
Trager-the-untouchable.
Last night’s bender left him really jittery this morning. Too much coke, too little reward—now he’s licking his lips, stumbling out of the car, licking his lips and licking his lips and—
—inside, in the elevator, toes tapping and arms tightly crossed—
(She wouldn’t tell. No way she’d tell. She already got what she wanted, didn’t she? Rifling through his things? Snorting his paycheck? Probably took a shit ton of money that he’ll have to recount later. Serves him right for keeping cash.)
—on the 5th floor, at Blaire’s office when he sees
through the window
all of them
and his heart is no longer in his chest.
Blaire, Paul, Pauline, and Michelle, sitting together and having a lovely chat without Trager. Tears stream down Michelle’s face (all the way down to her swollen baby bump), and Paul’s got his arm around her (like Trager’s the sleazy one)…Pauline looks as cold and rigid as ever, and Blaire is solemn, nodding his head in tune with their whore mouths.
He reaches across the desk and holds Michelle’s hand. A firm squeeze.
Goddamn snakes.
Something inside of him squeezes and pops like a water balloon and the moisture seeps out of his eyes. Red anger. Bright red, beating down the door
red fucking hot liars
Scissors plunging into the whore’s belly and rifling through her guts. One for her and one for the baby.
red hot blood
for his baby
And they’re both liars.
Blaire doesn’t help him fight off the hoard of angry bodies, even as Trager plunges the scissors into his own leg and topples over, Paul stomping his hand and Pauline on top of him like last night (which is almost funny if he could still feel) but he’s lost all sense since then and all he can see is Blaire’s stone cold face.
Unwavering. Unsympathetic.
And he realizes as Pauline grabs the sides of his head and slams it down against something
it
was
always
a
lie.
He screams but he doesn’t know why at first. The loud whirring and grinding blurs away his thoughts as it settles in his ears and buries itself in his scalp.
With a deafening SCCRRRRRRRRRAAAATCH, the paper shredder tears his hair from his skull, taking scalp with it
(like pulling a wax strip.)
and spurting blood positively everywhere.
trager’s body is unbearably hot and tears spring from his eyes like a red fountain, showering the shocked statues around him in its nauseating metallic glow.
(he always wondered about cold limp dead. now he’s hot stiff and alive. Too alive
Too alive)
Blood pours from his face and head and his voice cuts and wavers but Blaire doesn’t move.
Michelle lays slumped against his leg, sobbing and retching, but Blaire just
stands there
watching Trager die
giving up on Trager
watching Trager’s hot red life splatter all over everybody, all over Pauline who’s still on top but he can’t even be MAD because he can’t BE
He watches Blaire become one with the floor.
All of this…manufactured?
His eyes won’t close.
What we had?
he cant close his eyes
he just sees
with a red film
We had something good, buddy
and he lays limp
dont give up
getting cold
please buddy
getting dead.
explosion. red. murder. desolation. mame. violence. rape. burst. limp. hot. stiff. hanging. hot. hot. hot. hot. burning. boiling. scalding. Nightmares.
inside the Engine. Or, rather, the Engine is inside him. Pumping him full of that Nazi’s nightmares.
(to the brim)
so many tubes, so many liquids. the pressure , like being in a submarine far too meek to handle the tectonic depths
his eyeball explodes. He tastes sweet like wine. Red wine. He misses the bitter attack, the bitter attack of Rick Trager in the drink, the sleepiness, sleepy, sleepy sleepiness of Rick Trager’s sly infliction—
—he misses the tiredness. He misses not being so Painfully Awake all the time with no escaping it.
he’s painfully aware that he’s currently dying.
gradually slowing to a halt
screeching
and either they don’t hear him or they’ve all given up.
(what changed? it was one fucking slip up. one mistake. one pair of scissors.
a very subtle step up from his usual hobby)
(he overflows, vomiting and vomiting and vomiting)
into the void
he sees them through the glass—shapes, anyway, but he can recognize little slithering fucking creatures when he sees them
filthy fucks. tainting his sterile view
everything Clean and
he floats, waiting for them to notice him, but they never do. Every single orifice stuffed with tubes, and they won’t even glance. a circus animal with no audience. a painting in a closed museum.
I DIDNT DO ANYTHING WRONG
IM RICHARD FUCKING TRAGER! DONT YOU KNOW WHO I AM
I DIDNT DO ANYTHING THEYRE ALL LIARS
LIARS
PLEASE YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE ME
IM AN EXECUTIVE
I MADE THIS
I MADE
I
DID
THIS
?
and this is how you repay me?
the doctor is in.
he removes his clothes
he dons his surgical apron. gotta keep the bits away from his tools
he cuts off the scalp first this time. listens to them scream
it tickles something deep inside. he didn’t sound like that when it happened to him, did he?
the screams are his favorite part. he likes to make his patients feel painfully alive— unable to die like he was for God knows how long—trapped in purgatory.
usually he goes fingers first, then balls, then tongue. it prompts the most reaction. makes them believe in the product.
it feels good to be back in blaire’s shoes.
orgasmic, really
when he sees him again…oh, man
he’ll kiss him and chew his fucking tongue off. they’ll bump uglies just like that one time when they almost did that one thing. no rohypnol needed.
trager’s not a coward anymore.
they’re gonna be so close.
So.
Close.
The thought is sobering. Trager looks at himself in the mirror. The grayish-beige streaks. The red. The dark smock and the gray, dead hair framing the sides of his face.
The scars running up and down his scalp.
He pulls down his surgical mask and smiles, holding Blaire’s forked tongue between his canines.
And he feels hot.
Cold.
Stiff.
Limp.
Dead.
And alive.
And for the first time since having Wernicke’s Engine fucked into him
it feels good.