“Yo, Anon, how's it goin' man? I thought I'd record a message 'nd send it your way as a sorta assurance that I've been… Y'know, living… these years…” The raptor sighs and looks towards the wall, as if to assure himself that the next words that come out of his mouth are exactly the words he wanted to say. "I- I don't know what to do, man." I glare as Reed drops the stoner act entirely. Maybe he's ditched carfe for a more productive hobby. "I know, you've probably seen the reports somewhere, and I'd understand if you hate me right now." No idea what he's talking about. A quick YouSnoot search yields ‘Red raptor manufacturer; obsessive hobby or Russian scare tactic?’ Brushing aside the obvious bait title- wait. Reed. Carfe manufacturer from high school Reed. Former band-mate and ‘best friend’ Reed. Is on the news. Wanted for substance possession. I listen intently, far more interested knowing I may be watching the next Therizino Kaczynski spill his manifesto to me and only me. “-But, at least let me… I dunno, spill some beans on what's been happenin'.” I instinctively raise the volume to the audible faucet in the kitchen. Figures I should help clean up in there… Nah, Lucy will understand. It's her band-mate after all. "Hey, sweet tooth!" That one hurt me. Lucy pops her head out from behind the wall, a mix of embarrassment and annoyance plastered on her beak. "What." “Look who's on!” The faucet stops. She steps out, just about a foot from the flatscreen, pressing a towel to her hands. “Is that Reed…? What's he been up to?" I shoot her a weary glance, she replies in confusion. “What? Did… Did Reed get busted?” I flip the article her way. Within an instant she's giving me the most panicked face I've seen her in. “I'm gonna clean the sink, don't you dare watch another second without me.” Wasn't the letter directed to me? Why wouldn't he want Lucy to watch this? As I consider his motives, my ptero-wife takes a seat next to me on the great leather couch. Good God, this is three hours long? *** * ************************************************************************************************************************************** * *** My eyes shoot open to the sound of shattering glass from down the hall. I race out of my trance and snatch the tire iron from the trunk at the end of the bed. Stepping over the littered rags and papers, I sneak like a black-ops agent to the front door ready to knock a fucker out clean and consice. Rounding the corner to the kitchen's blind spot and- nobody's home. From the front door you can see the kitchen, bathroom, living room, and hallway connecting to the 2 bedrooms and garage. This house was my buddy Carter's, who is the breadwinner of us two. A chill breeze touches my hand and leads me to the broken pane to the right of the fireplace. On the floor mixed in the shards laid a paper, taped to a rock. That's one way to get a stoner to creep the fuck out. Reaching towards the rock and flipping it over reveals a warning written in such shit handwriting I almost discard the message entirely: “UR BASEMENT IS ON.” Shit, did I ever turn off the light downstairs? The basement I keep the carfentanyl lab in, did I ever even roll the tarp out when I finished? Carter is gonna have my ass for this… Bolting down the hall, iron rod in hand, I almost smack into the door that just opened into Carter's room. My beak meets his, with about a 4-inch distance between the two. Carter is an orange gallimimus with feathery mane going from his bottom lip to the top of his chest. He may not work out much but, shit, his legs have some muscle in there. Some close relatives of his migrated from the south only a few decades ago, so he's rocking a broad hick accent. “Reed.” His voice is monotone and sterile (a la Kim Carnivashian.) “What the fuck is happening?” “The basement lights are on, bro.” His look is confused, he glances at me like I've wronged the confederacy for the very last time. “So… you smashed a window with an iron?” Raptor Jesus above, Carter. I forced past the door after directing him towards the glass-tastrophe and, sure enough, there the laboratory stood under the glorious tube lights of the basement. Aiming to increase the electricity bill no further I give the plastic tables a shitty cover-up and race- Uhp. I freeze in place at the unmistakable sound that passed my virgin ears; the hammer of a Smith & Wesson drawn back. I didn't risk gandering back, instead the shadowy figure spoke. “You call that for that trigga an’ I’ll shoot both of you.” His voice was grainy and rough, definitely some junkie looking for my expertise in the field. But I could tell he meant what he said nonetheless. I step back down from the staircase, arms in view, but still taking every step carefully. He speaks up again. “I’m guessin’ you know nobody’s buyin’ yo shit, that’s why I came.” So I’m getting shot because I made a few bad batches of carfe, I hope that ends up on my headstone. I’m slowly revolving around the table so I can get a better look at my shadowy hater: An old gruff triceratops with a distinct chin you’ll only see on addicts. He looks just a bit shorter than me, and his face indicates he’s about to get whatever he wants. I do have to admit, his grip on that gun is firm and very threatening. He’s wrapped in two coats, a dozen scarves, and some good looking cowboy kickers with the tags still attached. Was there a stitch he didn’t steal? He pulls out a sheet of paper neatly folded and taped together as if its age precedes me. “You gon’ do ery’thang this list tells you. And then you gon’ give all the carfene to me when you done with it.” Although he didn’t say it, I’m guessing he’s paying me in fame and recognition. He hands me the list, making sure I’m at least arms distance from him by the looks of how he’s holding that blaster. I take a peek at the shotty letter and… What? That's… it’s even signed… it checks out… does it really…? This crackhead just gave me the recipe to a perfect 12 ounce batch, signed by J- “Gonna turn off the lights, raptard!?” Carter’s bellow smacks me out of my train of thought. The trigga motions for me to answer. “Y-yeah, give me a minute b-bro!” That wasn’t convincing in the slightest, but the druggie didn’t even notice… somehow. He waits till he hears what sounds like a door shutting until he talks again. “Your deadline is two days. I bettuh’ see you innis same basement with the carfene when I come back.” I nod. If I didn’t, I’d probably be eating lead on the floor. He begins to scale the carpeted stairs, his aim only laid unto me and my paper. The door slams open. In a split second, the trigga instantly turns his aim, but the horns on his face have already merged into the bridge of his nose, along with the eyes, the crest, and parts of the top lip. I'm not sure whether it was the blood or nerves which donned the white insulant first, but in the end there were face parts reaching the furthest parts of the room. Holy shit, Carter just point-blanked a crack addict in his basement. I hear him shout in pain, not a peep from ol’ faceless. “Got damn trigga-ninnies! I’d have half a mind to rid them from this country myself!” Carter leans on the wood rails, bleeding from a grazed shoulder. I’m hunched behind some stacked boxes, the glump at the bottom of the stairs too hard to look at. “You’re not pussying outta this one, Reed. Grab a trash bag and some rum from upstairs.” I can’t even move. I’m stuck in my own thoughts forever. Who else heard that firefight? Am I gonna get swatted? How are we gonna dispose of a body? Does Carter- “Now, genius!” Bracing myself, I walk towards the stairs with my eyes shut. First my hip hits the tarp, then my foot hits a discarded lamp. Finally, I feel the guard rail. … You can do this, Reed. I take a deep breath and open my eyes slowly. … That’s a faceless corpse. On our staircase. I was just talking to him a minute ago. “Reed!” Before I could think of what to do I decided to lunge past the motionless legs, and then promptly tripped on the stairs. The cushion like carpet is a nice change of pace from running, but I have a job to do. Looking back one more time, I think I’m over it. The cleanup takes till sunrise. Carter is managing with the scales he’s missing just fine, crazily enough. That entire bottle I grabbed is now empty and discarded in the same bag we put the triceratops in. Carter thought I should have the revolver, I happily accepted. In the meantime, I rolled up a few and reefed it in the backyard with my roommate. “S’what did that trigga want with you?” I nearly forgot about the ‘Perfect Carfentanyl for dummies’ sheet in my pocket. “Says I cook like a retard, what does he know though?” Carter shoots me an expectant glare. Not you too, buddy… “Is it like, really bad?” “Could be better, s’all I’m sayin’.” Yeah well fuck you too. “Hombre passed me this before-” He snatches the paper out of my hands before I can finish the first fold. “Holy SHEYUT!” His eyes grow steadily, I think I saw a few crows flock out of their nests from that rebel yell. “Signed, J. Watsenbaum, brother, do you know what you have here?” “I know, man, I know.” We pause for a minute. “Hoah, my god. We’re gonna make millions, Reed.” “Millions… haah…” We spent the rest of the morning blowing smoke out in the yard, not like we had anything else to do today. … Shit. I take a flight back to Volcaldera that should leave about… 2 hours from now?! How could I have forgotten? After packing an overnight bag and giving my goodbyes to Carter I’m off to the airport. Left that spotty revolver, obviously. Tomorrow there's a big high school reunion, even Anon made some time to drop by. We’ve all kept in contact since graduation, I haven’t seen anyone since Trish’s birthday though. Fang- right. Lucy is trying to fit into a job at Volcano High, I couldn’t believe it myself. Trish has her own horn carving business, that’s gotta turn a profit. Anon… I dunno what Anon does these days. The wait was tedious, but the flight is even more boring. I have some time to run loose with my thoughts. Was there more to that crackhead than some idiot trying to rob a few batches? Was he related to the Johannes Watsenbaum? Was it smart to take the page with me? It’s incredible that TSA hasn’t found it yet. Trish is letting me stay at her place for the weekend, beats a piece of shit motel with outrageous rates and 12-station television any day of the week. (Hotel? Trish-vago.) “Reed?” Suddenly I’m riding shotgun in Trish’s brand new Corvair on the way to her not-so-little-shit-infested rental. Even for a rich girl like Trish, it’s still too hard to find a vacant lot in Volcaldera Bluffs. “Are you even listening, Reed?” Trish has had a few piercings on her horns and even her nose since last time we saw each other. I never thought the day would come where I’d see Trish grow with the trigga-lip gene, what a shame. A purple blur flies past my face. “Reed!” My attention turns to the driver. “Yeeeahhh, keep talkin’!” She scoffs and dismisses my dismissal by waving her hand in my direction. “We’re doing a new special where the grooves of the tusk can actually, you know, like, sing. In the wind. They’re pretty killer, you know any other triceratops that might like that?” I almost vomited on the spot at the etched image of the faceless triceratops in my brain. “No, no I dunno anyone.” I look over at Trish, there’s a new slug shaped hole in-between her two eyeballs that’s spooking the shit out of me. God, goooood, this can’t be real, can it? Did Trish take that bullet? “Reed!” I quickly gulp and look over. There I’m met with the face of a completely intact triceratops giving me a raised eyebrow. I realize I’m breathing a hundred breaths a second, and we’re currently stopped outside a two story fourplex. A blunt pain reaches my forearm. “Don’t scare me like that, junkie. C’mon, we’re here.” I calm down a bit at her serenity. She didn’t see what happened last night, did she? Trish leads me inside her new apartment, a surprisingly well kept living room meets my gaze. From the front door you can see the kitchen, which connects to a ‘dining room’ if you can even call it that. The living room connects a bathroom, the stairs, and a closet going under them. “That’s you.” Trish points at the couch with only a pillow and a blanket covering it from exposition to the air above. “Bathroom is over there, there’s nothin’ good in the fridge, Oh! I don’t want you blazing it inside, so I put out a few lawn chairs out front.” “Isn’t carfe illegal?” A large grin appears above her chin. “You’re in California, raptard.” Oh shit that’s right. Volcaldera passed legislation way back that made hard drugs legal, like carfentanyl, for whatever reason. Praise be to Schwarzenegger. “I’m doin’ work upstairs, just call for me, or something, if you need me.” With that she climbs the stairs to do… carving? Anyways, I’m left with nothing to do standing in the middle of this nicely furnished kitchen. How far away is the nearest grocery? There's an Aldi just down the street, I’m down for another walk today. That should be enough for sandwiches, eggs, and enough microwave dinners to hold us over. “Your total is $102.57, will that be cash or card?” A hundred dollars for three days of food!? I take it back, I bring curse upon you and your family, Schwarzenegger. That's 5 trades worth of money spent on food… What am I saying? I have the recipe for success in my pants right now. A hundred dollars is pity money compared to what I could be making. I’m in a much more joyous mood when I get back to Trish’s apartment, I’m sure she will be too by tomorrow morning. When I open the door Trish is sitting on part of the sectional that has no comforters or pillows. The TV is showing- “Is that… Spears? Aaron Family Auto, Yo, I didn’t think Lucy was into that kinda thing!” Trish sets her grasp on the bridge of her snout and gives an exhausted sigh. “That’s her dad’s dealership, idiot. And yeah, Spears quit the whole principal job about… three months? After you left.” That’s a lot to unpack. Speaking of, there are freezer foods that need to be somewhere right now instead of this bag. I put away the foods without a hitch, and Trish doesn’t even care enough to help. Can’t blame her, she probably needs that break. It doesn’t even feel like I’ve been awake for a full 24 hours. Until I reach the couch. As soon as my head touches that pillow I’m on the verge of falling asleep, even with the lights and TV on. The only thing holding me back from an utter blackout is Trish’s goofy laugh when one of the ‘Three Stegos’ gets pied in the face. And even that’s… not holding… me back… [POST-NOTES] Copying Soradobi on this one because I felt it was necessary. DISCLAIMER: The following story is a work of fan fiction based on Snoot Game, created by Cavemanon Studio, which is in turn a parody game based on the currently unreleased game Goodbye Volcano High which is being developed by KO_OP. All characters and locations are the property of either Cavemanon Studio and/or KO_OP and the author of this fan fiction does not claim any right to these characters, scenarios, or locations. AKA, please don’t sue me; I have no money.