PREVIEW CHAPTER: Cherry Bomb (Patreon)

"The one in which a very drunk marriage counselor accidentally summons a demon by vomiting on a graffiti sigil on the back of Elm Grove's Gas'N'Go."

—

Fen Saelim has made a mistake, and that mistake is falling into the world's greatest cliche; a gut-wrenching, heart-breaking, unrequited love towards his best friend.

The next cliche, which brings him to the dubious, black-lit 'Succubus Strip' in upper Elm Grove, is that Killian, said childhood friend, is getting married to an adorable nurse, all thanks to Fen's relationship counseling.

And Fen, because he supposes suffering through counseling the couple for free isn't torture enough, has agreed to be Killian's best-man.

"It's getting late.  Elsie is probably worried..."

Yes, Fen is living in a 90's trash romance film. As selfish, horny, and devastatingly ignorant towards others' feelings as ever, Killian has chosen a strip-club in an eerie neighboring town as a means to the end of his bachelorhood.

The bride-to-be, Elsie, is blissfully unaware of this outing. She's as sweet as sugar, as stupid as Fen for loving Killian, and everything Fen wishes he was.

The man should resent her, he supposes, but when his phone dings with another message of her update on one of the sitcoms he recommended to her last Thursday, his stomach twists in guilt instead.

"You're my best friend," Killian chooses that moment to throw his hand over Fen's shoulder and drown back another shot.  His green eyes are bleary and red-rimmed from the fruity, neon mixes from the bar, and Fen isn't too better off, from the alcohol or the contact, and sucks the cherry off the stem of his cherry bomb.  "Not Elsie's. Quit textin' her.  Quit worryin' what she might think."

"Right,"  Fen says, but it doesn't feel right.  He watches as Killian ignores another of Elsie's incoming calls with a quick swipe of his finger.  He tucks his phone back into his pocket.  "But... I'm also counseling the two of you for your issues with…”

“My issues with what?”

“… Infidelity."

"And?"

"Don't you think this could—?"

"Jesus, nerd.  Look,"  Killian laughs, his cheeks flushed with alcohol and body heat.  Fen desperately tries to ignore the way his friend's hold on him becomes tighter, the way that Killian leans in closer to his ear,

"She asked me to marry her."  He shrugs.  "I'm just along for the ride. Be a bro for the night, if you can manage it."

"But I thought the counseling was working the way we were doing things — and,"

"Unofficial counseling." Killian interrupts. "You're my bud. Not my actual counselor." He winks like he's holding something over the other man.

It's only unofficial because you couldn't afford my rates.

"Conflict of interest, Fen. Besides. I'm doin' what the two of you wanted." Killian takes a swig of his drink, "I'm getting fuckin' married!"

He says the last word with a jeer, cup in hand up towards the ceiling, his drink sloshing over the sides of the plastic and down his hand.

Fen's sigh withers into the bizarrely ominous background noise, a low-timbre of an otherworldly pop beat — right as the groomsmen whoop loudly, disgustingly, like four monkeys slinging poop at a Zoo.

"Over here, gorgeous!"

"Yeah, over here!  We have a bachelor!"

Fen discovers that their drunken attention has been caught by a performer who has spun away from her pole, too close to their reach. She drops into an agile squat in front of Killian, nails long and manicured, the tiny jewels adorning their tips glittering under purple lights.

"Oh." Her grin is wide, teeth too sharp between plush lips.

The hair on Fen's neck raises.

"Did you say a bachelor?"

Somehow, this lures another dancer, who manages to avoid slipping in four-inch blood-red heels on haphazardly thrown dollar bills and fallen drinks, which, Fen admits, is impressive, distracting —

And also makes him dizzy.

He closes his eyes.

"You boys all hollerin' for us, hmm?"

Fen's eyes open to yet another dancer, her expression similarly unsettling. His gaze attempts to focus on the Cheshire smile in front of him, then slides back to the performer that has gracefully made her way into Killian's lap.

When did the stage get big enough for three?

"I'm not hollering for anything," Fen states, a matter of fact, and crosses his legs to the side with as much poise as he can muster. He juts a quick thumb towards the group to redirect the dancer's attention accordingly.

Fen, of course, admires their skill-set, and their performances are wildly praiseworthy, but he'd rather keep his distance.

"You sure, pretty?"

He nods.

"Suit yourself."

Maybe, if he was another man, he might appreciate that the stripper's top has been discarded near the platform, but unfortunately, he's not easily distracted by hormones, and, with a sigh, he swallows down his drink. His stomach begs him not to, but Fen hopes that the alcohol will reroute his moral compass.

Only — then his phone dings with another message from Elsie.

Elsie (incoming message):

I know it's late.  I just wanted to take a moment to be extra corny and say that I'm so glad that you're part of the wedding! I couldn't have hoped for a better friend for my fiancé. Thanks for everything you've done for us! xx

Fen admits his conscience has no desire to take a backseat, and orders another cherry bomb, slumps in his booth — and excuses himself politely when yet another performer throws one glittered leg over his lap and says,

"Are you bored?"

Jesus, what's with this place?

No.

He wouldn't say he's bored.

He's just exceptionally gay.

And now there's freaking glitter on his pants.

Fen huffs.

He gracelessly pushes through the bathroom door and washes his face, dries it, straightens the collar of his stifling button-up— then stares in the bathroom mirror.  He blinks, tidies the cuffs of his sleeves, and ignores the grunts and moans from stall number one until he can concentrate enough to walk straight.

Yes.

He pats off the layer of shimmer over his slacks.

Fen is pathetic, drunk, and now — sparkly.

He's also remarkably single, miserable, and guilty — and Killian, who is getting married in a week, who Fen has loved since twelve years old, likely won't even notice his departure.

So.  Fen walks into Elm Grove's chilly night air...

And hails a taxi.

—

Taxi cabs rivers are a different breed than the ones in Wickerton.  This particular taxi-driver has chatted Fen's ear off for the past half-hour about Goëtia and conjuring spirits, sings loudly, and has a series of religious charms hanging from her mirror that chime with each turn.

She's also threatened him bodily harm if Fen is to even think of vomiting in her back seat, which Fen finds in deep contrast to her large cross, and then she decides to stop at Elm Grove's Gas'N'Go because she has an insatiable need for hot Cheeztos.

She's been shopping for fifteen minutes.

Fen has determined he dislikes her. He'd rather not spend another half hour in her backseat, either, or listen to another story about exorcisms.

He'll have nightmares; he's sure of it.

Therefore, to escape her, he stands at the back of the gas station, next to the trash-cans and across from a cemetery and the small town's namesake elm trees, trying to find someone in his contacts that could be bothered to pick him up this late.

The lights above him are faulty and flickering, casting long shadows, and Fen shudders.

It's chilly, and it's creepy, and —

He just wants to lay down, dammit. Too bad it's too damn spooky and unsanitary to do so.

Fen tries desperately to get ahold of Knox, his colleague, who stays with his father thirty minutes out in lower Wickerton.  Fen's eyes wander over the wall in front of him in the process, over the multi-colored graffiti of a giant penis, a declaration of love for a 'Candy Calhoun,' and a —

A sigil?

Oh, that's a fucking sigil.

Fen shudders a second time.

"Hello? ...What is it, Fen?"

Fen startles at the sudden voice.  He almost drunkenly forgets that he dialed Knox — and means to ask for help, for a ride, or something.  Something like,

"I can give you gas money if you get me away from this graffiti'd demonic symbol and Godzilla penis,"

or

"I don't have WiFi. Can you Yooble how likely it is that ghosts exist? Because I might sleep in a cemetery tonight, and I don't want to spend the next 15 years with a spiritual presence in my home,"

But instead, in the back corner of Elm Grove's Gas'N'Go, Fen begins vomiting cherry bomb all over their wall, right over the looping center curves of the sigil before him.

And then he drops his phone in what looks to be melted slushy.

Lovely.

—

THIS IS A PREVIEW CHAPTER FOR A STORY THAT IS AVAILABLE ON THE TEN DOLLAR TIER.

if you‘d enjoy a mix of Oliver and Milan, you’ll likely enjoy Fen.  If you enjoy Ezra and Cyric, you’ll likely enjoy the demon.  There’s also a dual protagonist who has a sapphic romance!